rufous face.

The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him
away.

"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and
mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and
a thirst afterward."

"I expect it does."

"But this bally place seems to bewitch people," continued the big
man. "What is it about Dartmoor? Only a desert of hills and stones
and two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and
yet--why you'll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would
only be a bad substitute."

The other laughed. "There is a magic here. It gets into your blood."

"So it does. Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing
to see but the poor devils of convicts. A man I know is building
himself a bungalow out here. He and his wife will be just as happy
as a pair of wood pigeons--at least they think so."

"I heard a trowel clinking."

"Yes, I lend a hand sometimes when the workmen are gone. But think
of it--to turn your back on civilization and make yourself a home in
a desert!"