"That's stuff," answered Jack; "no more than a maggot got in your head. If they don't like you, there's a reason. They'm feared of your sharp tongue, and think 'tis the key to a hard heart. Then 'tis for you to show 'em what they can't see. I'll tell you what you are: you'm a man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't larn how to turn corn into bread. That's you in a word." Trowlesworthy was reached and Jack went his way. "You might come and drink a dish of tea some Sunday," said Mr. Baskerville, and the other promised to do so. Then Humphrey proceeded beside the river, and presently ascended a rough slope to his destination. The ruin that alternately drew and repelled him lay below; but for the moment he did not seek it. He climbed to the high ground, dismounted, turned his pony loose, and took his pipe out of his pocket. The great cone of granite known as Hen Tor lies high upon the eastern bank of Plym, between that streamlet and the bog-foundered table-land of Shavercombe beyond. From its crown the visitor marked Cornwall's coastline far-spreading into the west, and Whitsand Bay reflecting silver morning light along the darker boundaries of earth. Spaces of grass and fern extended about the tor, and far below a midget that was a man moved along the edge of the ripe bracken and mowed it down with a scythe. Half a dozen carrion crows took wing and flapped with loud croaking away as Humphrey ascended the tor and sat upon its summit. Again he traversed the familiar scene in his mind, again perceived the difficulties of transit to this place. Occasionally, before these problems, he had set to work obstinately and sought solutions. Once he had determined to rebuild the ruin in the valley, so that he might turn his back on man and make trial of the anchorite's isolation and hermit's bastard peace; but to-day he was in no mood for such experiments; his misanthropic fit passed upon the west wind, and his thoughts took to themselves a brighter colour. Where he sat two roof-trees were visible, separated by the distant height of Legis Tor. Trowlesworthy and Ditsworthy alone appeared, and for the rest the river roamed between them, and flocks and herds wandered upon the hills around. The man still moved below, and long ribbons of fallen fern spread regularly behind him. A foul smell struck on Baskerville's nostrils, and he saw death not far distant, where the crows had been frightened from their meal. He climbed away from the main pile of the tor and sat in a natural chair hollowed from the side of an immense block of granite that stands hard by. He smoked, and his pony grazed.