“Yes, it is a bit hot,” said the stranger, a tall, thin, weary-looking man of about forty, from whose frayed clothes and peaked hat I put down to be a seafarer. “Phew! I’ve felt it to-day—and I’m not so strong, either.”
“Have you come far, sir?” deferentially inquired the innkeeper who, having taken down his long clay, had also taken measure of his customer and decided that he was no ordinary tramp.
The other stopped his eating, looked Warr, the publican, full in the face in a curious, dreamy fashion, and then sighed—
“Yes, a fair distance—a matter of ten or eleven thousand miles.”
The landlord caught his breath, and I noticed that he looked still more earnestly into the stranger’s weather-beaten face.
“Ah! maybe you’ve been abroad—to America?” he remarked, striking a match and holding it in his fingers before lighting his pipe.
“I have, and a good many other places as well,” answered the tramp thoughtfully, resting and trying the point of the knife on the hard deal table before him. “I’m a wanderer—I am, but, by Jove!” he added, “it is real good to see these green English fields once again. When I was out yonder I never thought I’d see them any more—these old thatched houses, the old church, and the windmill that generally wants a sail.”
“You speak as though you know Sibberton—” the landlord said, and then he stopped uneasily.
The customer, who saw in an instant that his slip of the tongue had nearly betrayed him, answered—
“No, unfortunately I don’t. I—well, I’ve never been in these parts before.” And from where I stood I detected by the man’s keen, dark eyes that he was not speaking the truth. The innkeeper, too, was puzzled.