was so fond on me he’d smelt me out over thirty miles and pulled the log he was tied to in the stable after him and broke down the door and come upstairs into bed with me. I loved that dog. And that’s why I say you’re after losin’ a good friend in yours. Give me the lend of another gorm to go to sleep on.’ Abner gave him the tobacco, and after that the story-teller was silent. Falling asleep, Abner heard only the regular noise of his companion’s jaws as they chewed. In half an hour they were both asleep. Early next morning Mick Connor woke him, telling him that unless they cleared out the farmer’s men would find them. Abner was far too comfortable for the moment to want to move, but as soon as he regained full consciousness he realised that his skin was itching all over. ‘This place is alive with fleas,’ he said. His companion only laughed. ‘That’s all you know about it,’ he said, ‘and the both of us eat with hayseeds. I’m after telling you somethin’. Never choose hay to sleep in if you can fin’ straw. It’s worse than a houseful of bugs.’ Abner was curious to see the owner of last night’s voice and the teller of stories. He found it difficult to fit in the man with his narration. It was impossible to guess his age, but his hair was slightly touched with gray and stood up in a frizzy mass that made him look wilder than he was. He was of middle height, thin and very wiry, with a small head, bright eyes like a bird and a bony face in which the skin over the cheekbones was netted with red veins. His eyes were blue, and humorous or savage as the occasion took him. At this hour of the morning he did not appear anxious to talk and his voice that had been soft and persuasive in the darkness, was rough and short. They left the barn together. The cows were still sleeping outside and a dew was on the grass, but the moisture had not fallen on the road, which seemed as baked and dusty as ever. ‘Which ways are you going?’ the Irishman asked. ‘Going to Wales,’ said Abner. ‘Then the two of us had better travel together,’ he said, and Abner consented. They walked for some miles in silence. Mick, at this hour of the morning was not disposed to talk. He went on ahead with a long, loping gait, very different from the tramp’s habitual shuffle. They came to a brick bridge that proclaimed itself unsuitable for traction engines, and here he suddenly climbed the hedge and started to wash himself in a bed of cresses. He took out the broken end of a comb and smoothed his wet hair close to his head like a picture of the Madonna. The water took the gray out of it so that he looked almost young. Abner also washed, and when he had picked the irritating hayseeds out of his shirt, he offered his companion half of a piece of bread that remained in his pocket. Mick took it without a word and dipped it in the water. Without this soaking he could not have tackled it, for though his bristling moustache concealed the fact, he had scarcely any teeth.