“What then? Who’s to keep him?”
“Wait till you’ve got him.”
“Are you sure they’ll go a thousand for him?”
“Probably two. Sheer off now, and don’t forget, twelve o’clock.”
The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and curls himself back into his roost.
But not to sleep—to meditate a campaign.
“Julius,” says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the brewing storm, “you and I will have to stop this business. There’ll be three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?”
Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once.
Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it.
The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side.