When a train of asses or mules conveyed contraband goods along a road, it was often customary to put stockings over the hoofs to deaden the sound of their steps.
One night, many years ago, a friend of the writer—a parson on the north coast of Cornwall—was walking along a lane in his parish at night. It was near midnight. He had been to see, or had been sitting up with, a dying person.
As he came to a branch in the lane he saw a man there, and he called out “Good-night.” He then stood still a moment, to consider which lane he should take. Both led to his rectory, but one was somewhat shorter than the other. The shorter was, however, stony and very wet. He chose the longer way, and turned to the right. Thirty years after he was speaking with a parishioner who was ill, when the man said to him suddenly, “Do you remember such and such a night, when you came to the Y? You had been with Nankevill, who was dying.”
“Yes, I do recall something about it.”
“Do you remember you said ‘Good-night’ to me?”
“I remember that someone was there; I did not know it was you.”
“And you turned right, instead of left?”
“I dare say.”
“If you had taken the left-hand road you would never have seen next morning.”
“Why so?”