"Why, what to the devil is it you're chasing, boy?" Mr. Puddlebox's grumblings at last broke out, when yet another barrier surmounted revealed another and a steeper little beyond. "Here's a warm town we've left," cried Mr. Puddlebox, sinking upon a great stone, "and here's as wet, cold, and infernal a climbing as I challenge you or any man ever to have seen. Here's you been dragging and trailing and ripe for anything these three months and more, and now rushing and stopping for nothing so I challenge the devil himself to keep up with you." "Well, don't keep up!" said Mr. Wriford fiercely. "Who wants you to?" Mr. Puddlebox blinked at that; but he answered stoutly: "Well, curse me if I do, for one." "Nor me for another," said Mr. Wriford and turned where he stood and pressed on across the shingle towards the next rocky arm. Mr. Puddlebox sucked in his cheeks, felt at the hard lump in his pocket, then followed at a little run, and caught Mr. Wriford as Mr. Wriford climbed the further barrier of rocks. "Hey, give us a hand, boy," cried Mr. Puddlebox cheerfully. "This is a steep one." Mr. Wriford looked down. "What, are you coming on? I thought you'd stopped." "You're unkind, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. Mr. Wriford, looking down, this time saw the blink that went with the words. He jumped back lower, coming with reckless bounds. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. Look here, coming across this bit"--he pointed back to their earlier stopping-place--"I felt--I felt _rotten_ to think you'd gone." "Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, highly pleased. "Come down here, boy. Let's talk of this business." "But I wouldn't look back," said Mr. Wriford, "or come back. I've done with that sort of thing." "Why, so you have," said Mr. Puddlebox, rightly guessing to what Mr. Wriford referred. "You can come down now, though, for I'm asking you to, so there's no weakness in that. There's shelter here." "I don't want shelter," said Mr. Wriford, and went a step higher and stood with head and back erect where gale and rain caught him more full. Mr. Puddlebox summoned much impressiveness into his voice. "Boy," said Mr. Puddlebox, "this is a fool's game, and I never saw such even with you. Bring sense to it, boy. Tramping is well enough for fine days: winters for towns. There's money to be found in towns, boy; and if no money, workhouse is none so bad, and when we've tried it you've liked it and called it something new, which is what you want. Well, there's nothing new this way, boy. There's no work and there's no bed in the fields winter-time. Nothing new this way, boy." A fiercer drive of wind spun Mr. Wriford where he stood exposed. He caught at a rock with his hands and laughed grimly, then stood erect again, and pressed himself against the rising gale. "Ah, isn't there, though?" he cried. "Man, there's cold and rain and wind, and there's tramping on and on against it and feeling you don't care a damn for it."