"Smith, the schoolmaster," answered the old man with a jerk of the head. "He's doing his week here. I mean to catch him home if I can. I'm the man for a gentleman that lets his horse into my feed-room."
"Let him alone, father. He is hunted enough without you. You must have seen him, Jim. He's the man that looks as though something is just about to happen. He's married to a book and never gets past the first chapter. We ought to be sorry for him. He's meant for a town. I don't know what brought him here. Let's be romantic. Perhaps he loved some girl and lost her."
"In that case," King said, "I'll keep my sympathy. There are enough mourners for the man who has loved some woman and lost her. My heart goes out to the man who has loved some woman and can't lose her."
"Huh, huh!" cried the old man from the lead. "Ye needn't pity him, Maud. He has some woman to follow him round."
They had come to a couple of tents standing solitary. Neville rattled in the doorway of the first with his stick. "Hey, there, who's home?" The tent door was open for the world to look inside. At a table, consisting of a large board placed on a couple of travelling bags, Mr. Smith sat writing. An armful of books was at his elbow, and a litter of papers had tumbled round his heels. He was a man of fair complexion, going early bald on top. He sighed with great melancholy when the knock came, and put a hand to his forehead. On top of this he conjured up a mechanical smile and rose to his feet.
"You, Mr. Neville? Turned hot, hasn't it? Can I do anything?"
"I suppose ye know your horse had its head into my chaff half the morning? The last ton ran me up eighteen shilling a bag."
Mr. Smith shut his eyes. "I've driven it over the other way twice this afternoon," he said. "I sat down five minutes ago."
"I'm talking of the morning."