possible. Then, the sun had blazed furiously during the last six
imprisoned days, and now the long-looked for hours of freedom were
disfigured by rain and blight. He resented the malice of things. He
also resented the invasion of his brickfield by an alien van, a
gaudy vehicle, yellow and red, to the exterior of which clinging
wicker chairs, brooms, brushes and jute mats gave the impression of
a lunatic's idea of decoration. An old horse, hobbled a few feet
away, philosophically cropped the abominable grass. On the front of
the van a man squatted with food and drink. Paul hated him as a
trespasser and a gormandizer.

Presently the man, shading his eyes with his hand, scrutinized the
small, melancholy figure, and then, hopping from his perch, sped
toward him with a nimble and curiously tortuous gait.

He approached, a wiry, almost wizened, little man of fifty, tanned
to gipsy brown. He had a shrewd thin face, with an oddly flattened
nose, and little round moist dark eyes that glittered like diamonds.
He wore cloth cap on the back of his head, showing in front a thick
mass of closely cropped hair. His collarless shirt was open at the
neck and his sleeves were rolled up above the elbow.

"You're Polly Kegworthy's kid, ain't you?" he asked.

"Ay," said Paul.

"Seen you afore, haven't I?" Then Paul remembered. Three or four
times during his life, at long, long intervals, the van had passed
down Budge Street, stopping at houses here and there. About two
years ago, coming home, he had met it at his own door. His mother