“Yes, and wild shots often go into Aidenn Water. We usually have someone on the bank with the net to recapture them floating down!”
“That must be a grateful task.”
“It is like all other labours of love,” rejoined Crofts, “a joy to the doer, a wonder to the Philistine.”
I looked sharply at my friend; little nippy speeches like that were not like him.
Our talk drifted away from the games. I mentioned that ruin farther up the Vale, which I was eager to see by daylight. Cosgrove had some wild tale about it which he told with sonorous impressiveness—only, while I watched the lithe leaps of Paula Lebetwood and witnessed the accuracy of her shots, the gist of the history escaped me. At this moment all I can recall of it is that the word “treachery” kept coming in. Even if I was distracted from appreciation, Cosgrove seemed to derive a pure pleasure from hearing himself pour forth. But Crofts Pendleton did not dote on the tale; instead this account, doubtless half fact, half legend, seemed to remind him of present broils.
During an exchange of courts, I let my gaze alight on Mynydd Tarw, that northern hill above the ruin, whereon Aidenn Water begins at Shepherd’s Well. My glance roved down the western line of hills, Black Mixen, Great Rhos, Esgair Nantau, and Vron Hill, the last directly opposite us across the Water.
“Do you see it?” Crofts said suddenly.
“What?” I asked, rolling over with a start.
“The tumulus on Vron Hill. Some old josser lying up there with a ton of stones on his chest.”
“No, I don’t see it.”