Flemington would have given a great deal to run after him, and could easily have overtaken the cart, for its pace was not very formidable. But the whole community, including the tow-headed little girl, was watching Skirling Wattie out of sight and speculating, he knew, upon his own identity. So he walked leisurely on till the road turned at the top of the hill, and he was rewarded at the other side of its bend by the sight of the beggar halting his team by a pond at which the dogs were drinking. He threw a look around and behind him; then, as no human creature was to be seen, he gave a loud whistle, holding up his arm, and began to run.
Skirling Wattie awaited him at the pond-side, and as Archie approached, he could almost feel his bold eyes searching him from top to toe. He stopped by the cart.
“My name is Flemington,” said he.
“A’ve heard worse,” replied the other calmly.
“And I have a description of you in my pocket,” continued Archie. “Perhaps you would like to see it.”
The beggar looked up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, with a smile of the most robust and genial effrontery that he had ever seen on a human face.
“A’d need to,” said he.
Archie took a folded paper from his pocket.
“You see that signature,” he said, putting his forefinger on it.
The other reached up to take the paper.