In a small villa opposite lives Freddy, our married subaltern, and
Mrs. Freddy.

On a patch of turf up a neighbouring lane Oswald and Co. took up their
residence this summer.

The troopers called him Oswald for some unknown reason, but I doubt if
that was his baptismal name, and I doubt if he was ever baptized.

Oswald was a tall bony grizzled child of the Open.

Years ago he would have been dismissed briefly as a tramp, but we know
better now; we have read our Georgian poets and we know that such folk
do not perambulate the country stealing fowls and firing ricks from
any dislike of settled labour, but because they have heard the call of
far horizons, _belles étoiles_ and great spaces.

The Co. consisted of a woolly donkey which carried Oswald's
portmanteau when he trekked, and a hairy dog which provided him with
company and conversation.

The donkey browsed, unfettered, about the roadside, taking the weather
as it came; but Oswald and the dog, degenerates, sheltered under a
wigwam of saplings and old sacks.

The wigwam being four feet long and Oswald six, he had to telescope
like a tortoise to get fully under cover; sometimes he forgot his feet
and left them outside all night in the dew, but, as he had no boots to
spoil, this didn't matter much.