The figure, cut off, as it were, at the knees, looked particularly short and stout, humped like a camel, by the creel swung behind to be out of the way. His dress was a rusty brown doublet, with puffed-out breeches beneath, descending half-way down the thigh, and then all was bare. A steeple-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, from beneath which hung an abundance of slightly-curling silvery hair, completed the figure at which Mark Eden gazed, unseen; for the old man was intent upon his fishing, and just then he struck, and after a little playing, drew in and unhooked a finely-spotted trout, which he was about to transfer to his basket, when he was checked by a greeting from the back. "Morning, Master Rayburn. That's a fine one." "Ah, Mark, boy, how are you?" said the old man, smiling. "Yes: I've got his brother in the basket, and I want two more. Better come and help me to eat them." "Can't to-day.--Quite well?" "Yes, thank God, boy. Well for an old man. I heard you were back from school. How's that?" "Bad fever there. All sent home." "That's sad. Ought to be at work, boy. Better come and read with me." "Well, I will sometimes, sir." "Come often, my boy; keep you out of mischief." "Oh, I shan't get into mischief, sir." "Of course not; idle boys never do. Not likely to get fighting, either. I see young Ralph Darley's at home. Fine chance for you," said the old man, with a sarcastic ring in his voice, as he slipped his trout into the basket. "Is he?" cried the lad excitedly. "Oh yes; he's up at the Cliff. Now then, why don't you fill your pockets with big stones to throw at him, or cut a big club? Oh, I see, though. You've mounted a skewer. Pull it out, and try if the point's sharp. I suppose you're going down the river to lay wait for him and kill him." "There, you're as bad as ever, Master Rayburn," cried the lad, flushing, and looking mortified. "Last time I saw you it was just the same: laughing at, and bantering, and sneering at me. No wonder my father gets angry with you, and doesn't ask you to the Tor." "Yes, no wonder. Quarrels with me, boy, instead of with himself for keeping up such a mad quarrel." "It isn't father's fault, sir," cried the lad quickly. "It's the old feud that has been going on for generations."