Fulcon went to and fro along the passage like a brown crab, a man whose back seemed built for burdens, and whose bowed legs and hairy chest gave promise of great strength. He carried the faggots two at a time, and neighbours who loitered to watch him at work saw nothing but the sheaves of wood crawling along upon a knotty pair of legs. The boys of Reigate, who hated the baker because he had good apple trees and used a stick vigorously in defending the fruit, called him “tortoise,” and “snail in the shell.” Sometimes a boy would make a dash and pretend to try the snatching of a loaf from the stone counter of the little shop. But Fulcon had a dog who was as surly and as wide awake as his master. Nor was it to be wondered at that dog Ban had a sour temper, since the number of stones that were surreptitiously thrown at him would have paved the path in old Fulcon’s garden. The baker had come near the end of the load, and had disappeared up the passage, leaving the last two faggots lying on the footway. He came back, picking up the odd bits of stick that littered the stones. A bent body seemed such a habit with Fulcon that his eyes often saw nothing more than the two yards of mother earth before his feet. Hence he had already laid a hand to one of the remaining faggots before he saw the grey folds of a cloak spread out under his very nose. Fulcon straightened up, and showed his natural attitude towards the world by closing a big brown fist. He saw a woman sitting upon one of the faggots, a woman in a grey cloak with the hood drawn over her head. The woman’s back was turned to him, and by the stoop of her shoulders she seemed very tired. Fulcon took her for a beggar, and Fulcon hated beggars even more than boys. “Get up,” said he. And since she did not stir he repeated the command. “Get up, there,” and he reached out to take her by the cloak. The woman rose, and overtopped Fulcon by some five inches. She turned and looked at him with great brown eyes that seemed tired with the dust and the wind. The baker stared hard at her, catching the gleam of splendid hair drawn back under the grey hood. The woman’s face had a silence such as one sees on the face of a statue. “The wood’s mine,” he said, grumbling into his beard, and pointing a very obvious finger. The woman looked at him, and then at the shop. “I want bread,” she answered. Fulcon’s eyes retorted “pay for it.” The woman had a leather bag in her hand. She felt in it, and brought out money. Fulcon’s frown relaxed instantly. He stooped under the wooden shutter propped up by its bar, picked up a loaf, and handed it to her.