Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent. "I beg your pardon," he mildly apologised, "but a bull in the next field--" "That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon, growled the tramp. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," repeated Mr. Fogo; "you may be sure that had time for selection been allowed me--" "Look 'ere," said the tramp with sudden ferocity, "will you fight?" [Illustration: "Look 'ere," said the tramp . . . "will you fight?"] Mr. Fogo retreated a step. "Really--" "Come, look sharp! You won't? Then I demands 'arf-a-crown." With this the ruffian began to tuck up his ragged cuffs, and was grimly advancing. Mr. Fogo leapt back another pace. "_Cl'k--Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!_" This time the alarum was his salvation. The tramp pulled up, gave a hasty terrified stare, and with a cry of "The Devil!" made off across the field as fast as his legs would carry him. Overcome with the emotions of the last few minutes Mr. Fogo sat suddenly down, and the alarum ceased. When he recovered he found himself in an awkward predicament. He knew of but one way homewards, and that was guarded by the bull; moreover, if he attempted to find another road he was hampered by the loss of his spectacles, without which he could not see a yard before his nose. However, anything was better than facing the bull again; so he arose, picked the brambles out of his clothing, and started cautiously across the field. As luck would have it he found a gate; but another field followed, and a third, into which he had to climb by the hedge. And here he suffered from a tendency known to all mountaineers who have lost their way in a mist; unconsciously he began to trend away towards the left, and as this led him further and further from home, his plight became every moment more desperate. At last he struck into a narrow lane, just as the sun sank. He halted for a moment to consider his direction. "Pat--pat--pat." He looked up. A little girl in an immense sun-bonnet was toddling up the lane towards him. She swung a satchel in her left hand, and at sight of the stranger paused with her unoccupied forefinger in mouth. Mr. Fogo advanced straight up to her, stooped with his hands on his knees, and peered into her face. This behaviour, though necessitated by his shortness of sight, worked the most paralysing effect on the child. "Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?" There was no answer. Mr. Fogo peered more closely. "Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?" Still there was no answer. "Little girl--" "_Cl'k--whir-r-r-r-roo-oo _!" The effect of the alarum was instantaneous. "Boo-hoo!" yelled the little girl, and broke into a paroxysm of weeping. "Little girl--" "Boo-hoo! Take me home. I want mammy!"