from the road, when they stopped and stared, and I stared with
them. On that lonely highway travellers were about as rare as
roadmenders, and what caught their eye was a farmer's gig driven
by a thick-set elderly man with a woollen comforter round his neck.

I had a bad moment, for I reckoned that if Gresson recognized
Amos he might take fright. Perhaps the driver of the gig thought
the same, for he appeared to be very drunk. He waved his whip, he
jiggoted the reins, and he made an effort to sing. He looked towards
the figures on the hillside, and cried out something. The gig
narrowly missed the ditch, and then to my relief the horse bolted.
Swaying like a ship in a gale, the whole outfit lurched out of sight
round the corner of hill where lay my cache. If Amos could stop
the beast and deliver the goods there, he had put up a masterly bit
of buffoonery.

The two men laughed at the performance, and then they parted.
Gresson retraced his steps up the hill. The other man - I called him
in my mind the Portuguese Jew - started off at a great pace due
west, across the road, and over a big patch of bog towards the
northern butt of the Coolin. He had some errand, which Gresson
knew about, and he was in a hurry to perform it. It was clearly my
job to get after him.

I had a rotten afternoon. The fellow covered the moorland miles
like a deer, and under the hot August sun I toiled on his trail. I had
to keep well behind, and as much as possible in cover, in case he
looked back; and that meant that when he had passed over a ridge I
had to double not to let him get too far ahead, and when we were
in an open place I had to make wide circuits to keep hidden. We