After a time he stood up,
and retreating a few steps down the road, he scanned the boulder
narrowly.
"This," I said to myself, "may be something for me."
So I crossed the fence and walked down the neighbouring field. It was an
Indian summer day with hazy hillsides, and still sunshine, and
slumbering brown fields--the sort of a day I love. I leaped the little
brook in the valley and strode hastily up the opposite slope. I cannot
describe what a sense I had of new worlds to be found here in old
fields. So I came to the fence on the other side and looked over. My man
was kneeling again at the rock. I was scarcely twenty paces from him,
but so earnestly was he engaged that he never once saw me. I had a good
look at him. He was a small, thin man with straight gray hair; above his
collar I could see the weather-brown wrinkles of his neck. His coat was
of black, of a noticeably neat appearance, and I observed, as a further
evidence of fastidiousness rare upon the Road, that he was saving his
trousers by kneeling on a bit of carpet. What he could be doing there so
intently by the roadside I could not imagine. So I climbed the fence,
making some little intentional noise as I did so. He arose immediately.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97