Johnny left the chair, and joined his mother at the door. As they listened a more regular sound made itself plain, amid the low hum of the trees; footsteps. “Here he comes,” said Johnny. But the sound neared and the steps were long and the tread was heavy. In a few moments Bob Smallpiece’s voice came from the gloom, wishing them good-night. Mrs. May called to him. “Have you seen gran’dad anywhere, Mr. Smallpiece?” The keeper checked his strides, and came to the garden gate, piebald with the light from the cottage door. “No,” he said, “I ain’t run across him, nor seen his light anywheres. Know which way he went?” “He was just going to Wormleyton Pits an’ back, that’s all.” “Well, I’ve just come straight across the Pits, an’ as straight here as ever I could go, past the Dun Cow; an’ ain’t seen ne’er a sign of him. Want him particular?” “I’m gettin’ nervous about him, Mr. Smallpiece—somehow I’m frightened to-night. He went out about six, an’ now it don’t want much to nine, an’ he only had a bit o’ candle that wouldn’t burn an hour. And he never meant stopping long, I know, ’cause of a case he’s got to set. I thought p’raps you might ha’ seen—” “No, I see nothin’ of him. But I’ll go back to the Pits now, if you like, an’ welcome.” “I’d be sorry to bother you, but I would like someone to go. Here, Johnny, go along, there’s a good boy.” “All right, all right,” the keeper exclaimed cheerfully. “We’ll go together. I expect he’s invented some new speeches o’ moth, an’ he’s forgot all about his light, thinkin’ out the improvements. It ain’t the first time he’s been out o’ night about here, anyhow. Not likely to lose himself, is Mr. May.” Johnny had his cap and was at the gate; and in a moment the keeper and he were mounting the slope. “Mother’s worryin’ herself over nothing to-night,” Johnny grumbled. “Gran’dad’s been later ’n this many’s a time, an’ she never said a word. Why, when he gets after caterpillars an’ things he forgets everything.” They walked on among the trees. Presently, “How long is it since your father died?” Bob Smallpiece asked abruptly. “Nine years, now, and more.” “Mother might ha’ married agen, I s’pose?” “I dunno. Very likely. Never heard her say nothing.” Bob Smallpiece walked on with no more reply than a grunt. Soon a light from the Dun Cow twinkled through the bordering coppice, and in a few paces they were up at the wood’s edge. “No light along the road,” the keeper said, glancing to left and right, and making across the hard gravel. “There’s somebody,” Johnny exclaimed, pointing up the pale road. “Drunk,” objected the other. And truly the indistinct figure staggered and floundered. “An’ goin’ the wrong way. Chap just out o’ the Dun Cow. Come on.” But Johnny’s gaze did not shift. “It’s gran’dad!” he cried suddenly, and started running.