"I wasn't going to steal any of it; I'm no thief," I said, jesting again.

"I don't care what you are," he muttered.

The day wore on. Since I had a visitor, I had no desire to go to the
woods, but wanted to sit and talk to him and ask him questions. He was a
very ordinary man, of no great interest to the irons in my fire, with
dirty hands, uneducated and uninteresting in his speech; probably he had
stolen the things in his sack. Later I learned that he was quick in much
small knowledge that life had taught him. He complained that his heels
felt cold, and took off his boots. And no wonder he felt cold, for where
the heels of his stockings should have been there were only great holes.
He borrowed a knife to cut away the ragged edges, and then drew on the
stockings again back to front, so that the torn soles came over his
instep. When he had put on his boots again, he said, "There, now it's nice
and warm."

He did no harm. If he took down the saw and the ax from their hooks to
inspect them, he put them back again where he had found them. When he
examined the letters, trying perhaps to read the addresses, he did not let
them go carelessly, leaving them to swing back and forth, but held the
string so that it hung motionless. I had no reason to complain about him.

He had his midday meal with me, and when he had eaten, he said:

"Do you mind if I cut myself some pine twigs to sit on?"

He went out to cut off some soft pine, and we had to move Madame's straw
to make room for the man inside the hut. Then we lay on our twigs, burning
resin and talking.