He never let anyone see him in these moments—somehow they were almost sacred to him, the religion of his godless old age. But soon the more distant cottagers came to know him by sight, and watch for the tall old man who so often tramped past their doors. He always walked quickly, his head erect, a stout ash stick in his hand. He was always alone—not even a dog accompanied him. He wore dark corduroys, and either a wide-brimmed felt hat, or no hat at all, proud of the luxuriance of his iron-grey hair. They soon came to know who he was.
"'Tis old Mus' Backfield from Odiam farm by Peasmarsh. They say as he's a hard man."
"They say as he's got the purtiest farm in Sussex—he's done wäonders fur Odiam, surelye."
"But his wife and children's run away."
"They say he's a hard man."
"And he's allus alöan."
"He döan't seem to care for nobody—never gives you the good marnun."
"It's larmentäable to see an old feller lik that all alöan, wudout friend nor kin."
"He's straight enough in spite of it all—game as a youngster he is."