Besides,
you called me a liar last week."
"So you be. But I'll believe 'ee this time."
"Well, I'll tell 'ee this much--for you look a very handsome jowter i'
that new cart. If I were you, I'd be careful that gay furriner _didn
steal more'n my name_"
Meantime, a group of four was standing in the middle of Parc Dew, the
twenty-acred field behind the farmstead. The stranger, dressed in a
blue jersey and outfit of Farmer Tresidder's, that made up in boots for
its shortcomings elsewhere, was addressing the farmer, Ruby, and Jim
Lewarne, who heard him with lively attention. In his right hand he held
a walking-stick armed with a spud, for uprooting thistles; and in his
left a cake of dark soil, half stone, half mud. His manner was earnest.
". . . . I see," he was saying, "that I don't convince you; and it's
only for your own sakes I insist on convincing you. You'll grant me
that, I suppose. To-morrow, or the next day, I go; and the chances are
that we never meet again in this world. But 'twould be a pleasant
thought to carry off to the ends of the earth that you, my benefactors,
were living in wealth, enriched (if I may say it without presumption) by
a chance word of mine.
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