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           Igotmybootsandtrouser-legsallwhitefromthedustoftheroad,andhitchedupmytrousers,tyingthemwithstringbelowtheknee.ThenIsettoworkonmyface.WithahandfulofdustImadeawater-markroundmyneck,theplacewhereMrTurnbull’sSundayablutionsmightbeexpectedtostop.Irubbedagooddealofdirtalsointothesunburnofmycheeks.Aroadman’seyeswouldnodoubtbealittleinflamed,soIcontrivedtogetsomedustinbothofmine,andbydintofvigorousrubbingproducedablearyeffect.

           ThesandwichesSirHarryhadgivenmehadgoneoffwithmycoat,buttheroadman’slunch,tiedupinaredhandkerchief,wasatmydisposal.Iatewithgreatrelishseveralofthethickslabsofsconeandcheeseanddrankalittleofthecoldtea.InthehandkerchiefwasalocalpapertiedwithstringandaddressedtoMrTurnbull—obviouslymeanttosolacehismiddayleisure.Ididupthebundleagain,andputthepaperconspicuouslybesideit.

           Mybootsdidnotsatisfyme,butbydintofkickingamongthestonesIreducedthemtothegranite-likesurfacewhichmarksaroadman’sfootgear.ThenIbitandscrapedmyfinger-nailstilltheedgeswereallcrackedanduneven.ThemenIwasmatchedagainstwouldmissnodetail.Ibrokeoneofthebootlacesandretieditinaclumsyknot,andloosedtheothersothatmythickgreysocksbulgedovertheuppers.Stillnosignofanythingontheroad.ThemotorIhadobservedhalfanhouragomusthavegonehome.