"Lonesome?" retorted the man. "I wouldn't have nothing to say agin it if it were lonesome. I'm partial to the moors and such-like places meself. I never was a one for the towns, sir. But I don't like all these tall rocks and all these quiet trees at the back of one. They give me the fair 'ump!"
I laughed.
"You want the desert, Carstairs," I said. "Nothing but sand and then some. No trees looking at you there!"
"It ain't altogether the trees an' the cliffs!"
The man paused and scratched his head with the stem of his pipe.
"There's something sort o' creepy about this place, sir!"
"How do you mean?"
"Well," he said slowly, "it's a funny thing, but all the blessed evening I've had a kind o' feeling as if I was being watched. You know how it was in the war, sir—w'en you was workin' out in No Man's Land on a pitch-black night, scared to death you was walkin' into Fritz's line, tellin' yerself all through 'If you can't see him, he can't see you' but feelin'—well, as though there was nothin' but eyes starin' at you all around!"
He shook himself.
"It fair gives me the creeps!" he finished.