Mainly his way lay as it had lain when he carried the basket of sloes, that night when his grandfather had hunted his last moth. Johnny had left childish fancies years behind him, and now the trees were trees merely, one much as the rest, though green and cheerful in the sunlight. But even as on that night his mind had run on London, the longed-for London that was his home now, and stale with familiarity, so now he turned over once more the mystery of the old man’s cutting off: and with as little foreknowledge of the next chances in life’s hatful. Here branched the track by which he had made for Theydon; there was the tree under which he had last seen the old man’s lantern-light; and then the slade opened, glorious with heather. Brambles and bushes about the pits were changed—this grown higher and wider, that withered off; and the pits—the smaller pits, at least, seemed shallow enough holes under the eyes of a man of near six feet. The deepest pit—_the_ pit—was farthest; and Johnny could see a man, whose figure seemed vaguely familiar, sitting on its edge. He picked his way across the broken ground and came to the pit on the side opposite to the stranger. There was the hole where the old man had taken his death-blow. Perhaps the bottom had risen an inch or so because of gravel-washings; but the big stone in the middle was still plain to see. The man opposite was trimming wooden pegs with a pocket-knife. He wore corduroys, of a cut that Johnny held in remembrance. Johnny watched for a few seconds, and then the man turned up a leathery brown face, and Johnny knew him. It was Amos Honeywell, notable as a poacher, and chief of a family of poachers. Amos put a peg into his pocket and began on another. “Well, Amos!” called Johnny across the pit; “you don’t know me!” The man looked up, and stared. “No,” he said, “I dun’t.” Johnny gave him his name. “What?” answered Amos, putting away his peg unfinished. “Johnny May? The boy as used to be along o’ oad May the butterfly man, as died in a axdent in this ’ere very pit?” “Yes—if it was an accident.” “Oh, it was that all right ’nough. But, why, ye’re twice as tall: an’ ’taren’t so long, nayther.” Amos paused, staring mightily at Johnny, and slapped his thigh. “Why,” he said, “it’s the curiousest thing in natur, seein’ you now, an’ here too. Did ye see e’er a funeral las’ Wednesday?” “No—where?” “Up to chu’ch where yer gran’father’s buried. But no—y’aren’t livin’ hereabout now, o’ coase. Well it is the rarest conglomeration ever I see, me seein’ you ’ere at this ’ere very pit, an’ ’im buried on’y las’ Wednesday, an’ died in a accident too. Fell off a rick, he did.” “An’ who was he?” “Coopersale chap, he was, name o’ Stiles. Lived here ’bout six year. But coase you wud’n’ know ’bout him; ’twere he as did the accident.” “Did the accident? What d’ye mean?”