Dicky of Kingswood was making for home one day in early spring. He was
outside the radius of his usual field of operations, far to the east of
Kingswood and Staward, plodding along with the westering sun in his
eyes, and thinking ruefully that he had come a long way for nothing.
Sometimes it is convenient for gentlemen of Dicky's habits to visit
foreign parts, or parts, at least, where their appearance may not
attract undue notice--for such as he are often of modest and retiring
disposition. On this occasion he had so far done no business of profit,
and Dicky was depressed. He would fain turn a more or less honest penny
ere he reached home, if it might but be done quietly.

Late in the day came his chance. Grazing in a neighbouring lush pasture
were two fine fat bullocks. Dicky paused to look, and the more he
looked, the more he admired; the more he admired, the more he coveted.
They were magnificent beasts, seldom had he seen finer; nothing could
better suit his purpose. Such beasts would fetch a high price
anywhere--they _must_ be his. So, with what patience he could command,
till darkness should come to his aid, Dicky discreetly retired to a
neighbouring copse, where, himself unseen, he might feast his eyes on
the fat cattle, and at the same time make sure that if they did happen
to be removed from that particular pasture, at least he would not be
ignorant of their whereabouts. But the bullocks fed on undisturbed. No
one came to remove them; only their owner stood regarding them for a
while. Darkness fell, and the call of an owl that hooted eerily, or the
distant wail of a curlew, alone broke the stillness. Then up came
Dicky's best friend, a moon but little past the full. Everything was in
his favour, not a hitch of any kind occurred; quietly and without any
fuss the great fat beasts began to make their slow way west across the
hills for Cumberland.