A
wild beard flamed all about him; and in his hand was a long crook. He
stood on the rim of the saucer and looked down at his drinking flock.
Kit expected him to raise his hands and bless somebody. Instead he
spat luxuriously, and addressed his dog in gibberish.
"Ge ou tha go!" he growled, and only the dog knew he was being desired
to get out of that gorse.
Kit watched the man placidly. Instinct, which is inherited experience,
reassured him. There was nothing to be feared from this chap, and
nothing to be got from him. Abraham was shaggy, he was unintelligible,
he was harmless.
In his few days' experience of life, the boy had already learned one
great truth: that every man is exactly what he _looks_. The face
always reveals or betrays. And in this face, wild with the wildness of
storms and skies, there was nothing but the stupid innocence of one of
his own sheep.
The man threw at the boy one shy glance of a woodland creature, and
then ignored him. Another moment and he was stalking on his way, with
floating cloak, tall crook, dog at heel, a mass of yellow backs
rippling along in front of him.
IV
The boy stood on the rim of the saucer and looked down.
Dim green lowlands lay beneath him, spurs of the Downs thrusting out
into them.
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