take the Gospel from the coast to the heathen dwelling in the dark and
savage Andred's Weald.

The slope was with them; and Goosey Gander made his own pace, slipping
along with smooth and easy stride.

They followed the line of the telegraph poles, skirting steep coombes
shrouded at the foot with beech woods, past round-eyed dew-ponds, at
which cloaked shepherds were watering their flocks. Once an encampment
in the gorse caught their eyes. A yellow van, an ancient horse or two
hobbled in the gorse-bushes, a patch of brown tent, and a whiff of blue
smoke rising from an unseen fire, betrayed the nature of the squatters.

The old man pointed them out with his whip.

"There they are, the beauties," he said. "Thought they wouldn't be fur.
Rogues and rasqueals, Mr. Silver!" he cried, twiddling his whip, and
raising his voice to a sort of chant. "Rogues and rasqueals on h'every
side, layin' in wait for to take a little bit off you--same as the
Psalmist says. And it's no good talkin' to 'em. None whatebber." He
dropped his voice to the old confidential note. "Pinch the hair off the
back o' your head while you're sleepin', they would. Wonder who they
sneaked _her_ off?"

He turned his rogue-eye on the young man on the chestnut pony jogging at
his side, winked, and made a movement with his elbow.

"Course if they was to claim her, I got her off of an old friend o' mine
down in the West Country," he said, raising his voice. "Better still
Ireland as further away. Yes, South of Ireland--a'ter Punchestown. He'd