"Ay, in a little village on the coast between the Mendip hills and the river Axe."
A look of recollection stole into the dull gray eyes, but still the shrewd self-restraint lingered.
"How did the village lie, and what is its name?"
"Its name is Regis, and it lies like a baby in a cradle, snugly tucked away in the dip of the hills; and there is a brook close beside it that comes tumbling over the rocks to lose itself in the Axe."
Philpotts nodded unconscious assent.
"Oh," continued Neville, "but I would like to see that river Axe once more! I do remember a famous pool where the fish leaped to the hook in the spring in a fashion to make a man's blood sing."
"Did ye know Philpotts, then?"
"Ay."
"What mought his first name ha' been?"
"James—James Philpotts. He had a farm of my father, and he and I were wont to go a-fishing together in the Axe, and one cold day he fell in. He couldn't swim, if I remember; and how like a drowned rat he did look when he got out!"