Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were both turned in one direction––to the right.
“Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz,” said Iredale. “When he’s cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won’t need him until about eight o’clock.”
Then he turned towards the house.
“He don’t waste words,” observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.
“No; he’s dumb,” replied Iredale. “He’s my head boy.”
“Boy?”
“Yes. Sixty-two.”
The two men passed into Iredale’s sitting-room. It was plainly but comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more signs of the owner’s sporting propensities in the room than anything else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and trophies of the chase.
“We’ll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise known as the ‘Haunted Hill,’” said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack. “Select your 150 weapon. I should take a mixed bore––ten and twelve. We may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and one of those haversacks.”
Hervey did as his host suggested.