have frozen a cheap claret behind its cork, or a plain woman behind her veil; and now he was walking stoically through the mud, in a tweed suit that would eventually go on to the gardener’s boy, and would perhaps fit him.  The dear

gods, who know the end before the beginning, were perhaps growing a gardener’s boy somewhere to fit the garments, and Judkin was only a caretaker, inhabiting a portion of them.  That is what I like to think, and I am probably wrong.  And Judkin, whose clothes had been to him once more than a religion, scarcely less sacred than a family quarrel, would carry those parcels back to his villa and to the wife who awaited him and them—a wife who may, for all we know to the contrary, have had a figure once, and perhaps has yet a heart of gold—of nine-carat gold, let us say at the least—but assuredly a soul of tape.  And he that has fetched and carried will explain how it has fared with him in his dealings, and if he has brought the wrong sort of sugar or thread he will wheedle away the displeasure from that leaden face as a pastrycook girl will drive bluebottles off a stale bun.  And that man has known what it was to coax the fret of a thoroughbred, to soothe its toss and sweat as it danced beneath him in the glee and chafe of its pulses and the glory of its thews.  He has been in the raw places of the earth, where the desert beasts have whimpered their unthinkable psalmody, and their eyes

have shone back the reflex of the midnight stars—and he can immerse himself in the tending of an incubator.  It is horrible and wrong, and yet when I have met him in the lanes his face has worn a look of tedious cheerfulness that might pass for happiness.  Has Judkin of the Parcels found something in the lees of life that I have missed in going to and fro over many waters?  Is there more wisdom in his perverseness than in the madness of the wise?  The dear gods know.

I don’t think I saw Judkin more than three times all told, and always the lane was our point of contact; but as the roan mare was taking me to the station one heavy, cloud-smeared day, I passed a dull-looking villa that the groom, or instinct, told me was Judkin’s home.  From beyond a hedge of ragged elder-bushes could be heard the thud, thud of a spade, with an occasional clink and pause, as if some one had picked out a stone and thrown it to a distance, and I knew that he was doing nameless things to the roots of a pear tree.  Near by him, I felt sure, would be lying a large and late vegetable marrow, and its largeness and lateness would be a theme of conversation at luncheon.  It would be suggested that it should grace the harvest

thanksgiving service; the harvest having been so generally unsatisfactory, it would be unfair to let the farmers supply all the material for rejoicing.

And while I was speeding townwards along the rails Judkin would be plodding his way to the vicarage bearing a vegetable marrow and a basketful of dahlias.  The basket to be returned.

GABRIEL-ERNEST

“There is a wild beast in your woods,” said the artist Cunningham, as he was being driven to the station.  It was the only remark he had made during the drive, but as Van Cheele had talked incessantly his companion’s silence had not been noticeable.

“A stray fox or two and some resident weasels.  Nothing more formidable,” said Van Cheele.  The artist said nothing.

“What did you mean about a wild beast?” said Van Cheele later, when they were on the platform.

“Nothing.  My imagination.  Here is the train,” said Cunningham.

That afternoon Van Cheele went for one of his frequent rambles through his woodland property.  He had a stuffed bittern in his study, and knew the names of quite a number of wild flowers, so his aunt had

possibly some justification in describing him as a great naturalist.  At any rate, he was a great walker.  It was his custom to take mental notes of everything he saw during his walks, not so much for the purpose of assisting contemporary science as to provide topics for conversation afterwards.  When the bluebells began to show themselves in flower he made a point of informing every one of the fact; the season of the year might have warned his hearers of the likelihood of such an occurrence, but at least they felt that he was being absolutely frank with them.

What Van Cheele saw on this particular afternoon was, however, something far removed from his ordinary range of experience.  On a shelf of smooth stone overhanging a deep pool in the hollow of an oak coppice a boy of about sixteen lay asprawl, drying his wet brown limbs luxuriously in the sun.  His wet hair, parted by a recent dive, lay close to his head, and his light-brown eyes, so light that there was an almost tigerish gleam in them, were turned towards Van Cheele with a certain lazy watchfulness.  It was an unexpected apparition, and Van Cheele found himself engaged in the novel process of thinking before he spoke.  Where on earth

could this wild-looking boy hail from?  The miller’s wife had lost a child some two months ago, supposed to have been swept away by the mill-race, but that had been a mere baby, not a half-grown lad.

“What are you doing there?” he demanded.

“Obviously, sunning myself,” replied the boy.

“Where do you live?”

“Here, in these woods.”

“You can’t live in the woods,” said Van Cheele.

“They are very nice woods,” said the boy, with a touch of patronage in his voice.

“But where do you sleep at night?”

“I don’t sleep at night; that’s my busiest time.”

Van Cheele began to have an irritated feeling that he was grappling with a problem that was eluding him.

“What do you feed on?” he asked.

“Flesh,” said the boy, and he pronounced the word with slow relish, as though he were tasting it.

“Flesh!  What Flesh?”

“Since it interests you, rabbits, wild-fowl, hares, poultry, lambs in their season, children

when I can get any; they’re usually too well locked in at night, when I do most of my hunting.  It’s quite two months since I tasted child-flesh.”

Ignoring the chaffing nature of the last remark Van Cheele tried to draw the boy on the subject of possible poaching operations.

“You’re talking rather through your hat when you speak of feeding on hares.”  (Considering the nature of the boy’s toilet the simile was hardly an apt one.)  “Our hillside hares aren’t easily caught.”

“At night I hunt on four feet,” was the somewhat cryptic response.

“I suppose you mean that you hunt with a dog?” hazarded Van Cheele.

The boy rolled slowly over on to his back, and laughed a weird low laugh, that was pleasantly like a chuckle and disagreeably like a snarl.

“I don’t fancy any dog would be very anxious for my company, especially at night.”

Van Cheele began to feel that there was something positively uncanny about the strange-eyed, strange-tongued youngster.

“I can’t have you staying in these woods,” he declared authoritatively.

“I fancy you’d rather have me here than in your house,” said the boy.

The prospect of this wild, nude animal in Van Cheele’s primly