serpentinous way through the dismal, forbidding depths of the forest:
a man who, though weary and footsore, lagged not in his swift,
resolute advance. Night was coming on, and with it the no uncertain
prospects of storm. Through the foliage that overhung the wretched
road, his ever-lifting and apprehensive eye caught sight of the
thunder-black, low-lying clouds that swept over the mountain and bore
down upon the green, whistling tops of the trees. At a cross-road
below he had encountered a small girl driving homeward the cows. She
was afraid of the big, strange man with the bundle on his back and the
stout walking stick in his hand: to her a remarkable creature who wore
"knee pants" and stockings like a boy on Sunday, and hob-nail shoes,
and a funny coat with "pleats" and a belt, and a green hat with a
feather sticking up from the band. His agreeable voice and his amiable
smile had no charm for her. He merely wanted to know how far it was to
the nearest village, but she stared in alarm and edged away as if
preparing to break into mad flight the instant she was safely past him
with a clear way ahead.

"Don't be afraid," he said gently. "And here! Catch it if you can." He
tossed a coin across the road. It struck at her feet and rolled into
the high grass. She did not divert her gaze for the fraction of a
second. "I'm a stranger up here and I want to find some place to sleep
for the night. Surely you have a tongue, haven't you?" By dint of
persuasive smiles and smirks that would have sickened him at any other
time he finally induced her to say that if he kept right on until he
came to the turnpike he would find a sign-post telling him where to
get gasolene.

"But I don't want gasolene. I want bread and butter," he said.