“Why, you're not going on to Wurley's land?”
“No; I suppose not. I must try the mill tail again.”
“It's no good. You've tried it over twice, and I'm getting bored.”
“Well, what shall we do then?”
“I've a mind to get up to the hill there to see the sun set—what's its name?—where I waited with the cavalry that night, you know.”
“Oh! the Hawk's Lynch. Come along, then; I'm your man.”
So Tom put up his rod, and caught the old pony, and the two friends were soon on their way towards the common, through lanes at the back of the village.
The wind had sunk to sleep as the shadows lengthened. There was no sound abroad except that of Nibble's hoofs on the turf,—not even the hum of insects; for the few persevering gnats, who were still dancing about in the slanting glints of sunshine that struck here and there across the lanes, had left off humming. Nothing living met them except an occasional stag-beetle, steering clumsily down the lane, and seeming like a heavy coaster, to have as much to do as he could fairly manage in keeping clear of them. They walked on in silence for some time, which was broken at last by East.
“I haven't had time to tell you about my future prospects.”
“How do you mean? Has anything happened?”