Not that I ever saw much of these swarthy strangers, for they came with the morning and vanished with the night; and my father, in that impressive way he knew so well how to employ, warned me to keep well to the windward of them. But once in my ramblings I came face to face with old Dirk Stormaway, whom I had always taken to be the chief of the mysterious band. My first thought was that I had blundered inexcusably, for it was part of my training to scent instinctively the presence of a stranger, and here I had tumbled almost into his arms, not in the least aware of his nearness to me. He thrust out a huge hand and seized me by the shoulder, gazing deep into my eyes with a savage intentness which I returned with interest. "Wull," he drawled slowly, "an' who be ye?" Now among the few precepts my father had drilled into me was one never to be disconcerted in an unexpected crisis, and another was to meet danger with a smile. So I answered with a child's impertinence, "Maybe I'm my father's son." He was chewing something mechanically in his mouth, and at my answer he turned his head and spat, and I thought I saw the least of wrinkles pucker the furrows round his eyes. At length, "Yus," he said, "an' wull you may be." And after a pause he added, "An' who's your father?" "Maybe," I began; but the light in his eyes hardened, and his grip tightened, as though to warn me there was danger in carrying a joke too far. Instinct told me that the answer direct was the safest course now; and I said, "He's the gentleman at the inn." "Heh!" was the reply; but the hand still held me, and the chewing didn't stop. "An' what's he doing hereabouts, anyway?" was the next question. Now this was disconcerting, for to tell the truth I didn't know, and my father hadn't enlightened me. Also I began to suspect that under the circumstances the truth might be dangerous knowledge. For that my father was hunting diligently on the trace of some secret I had assumed as a fact by now. And might it not be that the secret was somehow connected with these men? Didn't he always vanish when they appeared? I felt myself shaken, and the eyes were fiercely fixed on me from under the man's savage brows. "Come now; what's he doing hereabouts?" he repeated; adding, "An' see here, kiddy, if ye don't tell me the truth on't an' no humbug, I'll crack your back like a stick." His other arm came out, and I felt myself slowly bending in his tremendous hands. "Why," I cried, again summoning what impudence I could, though I was terribly alarmed by now, "he's a poet, he is." "A what?" cried Dirk. He was evidently taken aback, and I felt my body free again. "He's a poet," I repeated. "He tells stories--writes," I corrected hurriedly.