'_I_ know what sort o' man you be,' old Hobden grunted, groping for the potatoes round the fire. 'Do ye?' Tom went on behind his back. 'Some of us can't abide Horseshoes, or Church Bells, or Running Water; an', talkin' o' runnin' water'--he turned to Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel--'d'you mind the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the miller's man was drowned in the street?' 'Middlin' well.' Old Hobden let himself down on the coals by the fire-door. 'I was courtin' my woman on the Marsh that year. Carter to Mus' Plum I was, gettin' ten shillin's week. Mine was a Marsh woman.' 'Won'erful odd-gates place----Romney Marsh,' said Tom Shoesmith. 'I've heard say the world's divided like into Europe, Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky, Australy, an' Romney Marsh.' 'The Marsh folk think so,' said Hobden. 'I had a hem o' trouble to get my woman to leave it.' 'Where did she come out of? I've forgot, Ralph.' 'Dymchurch under the Wall,' Hobden answered, a potato in his hand. 'Then she'd be a Pett--or a Whitgift, would she?' 'Whitgift.' Hobden broke open the potato and ate it with the curious neatness of men who make most of their meals in the blowy open. 'She growed to be quite reasonable-like after livin' in the Weald awhile, but our first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned, no bounds. And she was a won'erful hand with bees.' He cut away a little piece of potato and threw it out to the door. 'Ah! I've heard say the Whitgifts could see further through a millstone than most,' said Shoesmith. 'Did she, now?' 'She was honest-innocent of any nigromancin',' said Hobden. 'Only she'd read signs and sinnifications out o' birds flyin', stars fallin', bees hivin', and such. An, she'd lie awake--listenin' for calls, she said.' 'That don't prove naught,' said Tom. 'All Marsh folk has been smugglers since time everlastin'. 'Twould be in her blood to listen out o' nights.' 'Nature-ally,' old Hobden replied, smiling. 'I mind when there was smugglin' a sight nearer us than what the Marsh be. But that wasn't my woman's trouble. 'Twas a passel o' no-sense talk'--he dropped his voice--'about Pharisees.' 'Yes. I've heard Marsh men belieft in 'em.' Tom looked straight at the wide-eyed children beside Bess. 'Pharisees,' cried Una. 'Fairies? Oh, I see!' 'People o' the Hills,' said the Bee Boy, throwing half of his potato towards the door. 'There you be!' said Hobden, pointing at him. My boy--he has her eyes and her out-gate sense. That's what _she_ called 'em!' 'And what did you think of it all?' 'Um--um,' Hobden rumbled. 'A man that uses fields an' shaws after dark as much as I've done, he don't go out of his road excep' for keepers.' 'But settin' that aside?' said Tom, coaxingly. 'I saw ye throw the Good Piece out-at-doors just now. Do ye believe or--_do_ ye?' 'There was a great black eye to that tater,' said Hobden indignantly.