"Well, so you shall," said Mr. Pidgen. "I can't help it. You shall come
as often as you like. Upon my soul, I'm younger to-day than I've felt
for a long time. We'll go to the pantomime together if you aren't too
old for it. I'll manage to ruin you all right. What's that shining?" He
pointed in front of him.

They had come to a rise in the Polwint Road. To their right, running to
the very foot of their path, was the moor. It stretched away, like a
cloud, vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark
brown field rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now
crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting
sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in
midair, was shining like a golden fire.

"What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging. What the devil!"

They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they had
gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.

"It's like a man with a golden helmet. He's got legs, he's coming to
us."

They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, "Why, it's only an old Scarecrow.
We might have guessed."

The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey.

The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in
the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can
hanging over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to