I looked round, but the ramshackle cart was hidden by the turn of the road. "Does Stott still live at Pym?" I asked. "Not Ginger," replied Bates. "He lives at Ailesworth. Mrs. Stott and 'er son lives here." "The boy's still alive then?" I asked. "Yes," said Bates. "Intelligent child?" I asked. "They say," replied Bates. "Book-learnin' and such. They say 'e's read every book in Mr. Challis's librairy." "Does he go to school?" "No. They let 'im off. Leastways Mr. Challis did. They say the Reverend Crashaw, down at Stoke, was fair put out about it." I thought that Bates emphasised the "on dit" nature of his information rather markedly. "What do _you_ think of him?" I asked. "Me?" said Bates. "I don't worry my 'ead about him. I've got too much to _do_." And he went off into technicalities concerning the abundance of charlock on the arable land of Pym. He called it "garlic." I saw that it was typical of Bates that he should have too much to _do_. I reflected that his was the calling which begot civilisation. IV The best and surest route from Pym to the Wood Farm is, appropriately, by way of the wood; but in wet weather the alternative of various cart tracks that wind among the bracken and shrub of the Common, is preferable in many ways. May had been very dry that year, however, and Farmer Bates chose the wood. The leaves were still light on the beeches. I remember that as I tried to pierce the vista of stems that dipped over the steep fall of the hill, I promised myself many a romantic exploration of the unknown mysteries beyond. Everything was so bright that afternoon that nothing, I believe, could have depressed me. When I had reached the farm and looked round the low, dark room with its one window, a foot from the ground and two from the ceiling, I only thought that I should be out-of-doors all the time. It amused me that I could touch the ceiling with my head by standing on tiptoe, and I laughed at the framed "presentation plates" from old Christmas numbers on the walls. These things are merely curious when the sun is shining and it is high May, and one is free to do the desired work after twenty years in a galley. V At a quarter to eight that evening I saw the sun set behind the hills. As I wandered reflectively down the lane that goes towards Challis Court, a blackbird was singing ecstatically in a high elm; here and there a rabbit popped out and sat up, the picture of precocious curiosity. Nature seemed to be standing in her doorway for a careless half-hour's gossip, before putting up the shutters to bar the robbers who would soon be about their work of the night. It was still quite light as I strolled back over the Common, and I chose a path that took me through a little spinney of ash, oak, and beech, treading carefully to avoid crushing the tender crosiers of bracken that were just beginning to break their way through the soil.