III
Gian-Luca fell in with a tramp the next morning who was going in his direction, a dusty fellow with a hole in his shoe, and the restless eyes and shuffling gait that belong to the Brothers of the Road. Gian-Luca himself looked scarcely less dusty, and he too was shuffling a little, for those who walk far must economize force—they very soon drop their goose-step. A two days’ growth was on Gian-Luca’s chin, for he had not troubled to shave.
“I will let my beard grow,” he had said to himself, and now it was obviously growing.
But this unkempt appearance did not deceive the tramp, who had taken in Gian-Luca’s clothes. “A toff,” thought the tramp, “and ’e’s tryin’ to look shabby. Lordy, ain’t people amazin’!”
“Good morning!” said Gian-Luca on a sudden impulse; “it looks like being a fine day.”
“Yus,” grunted the tramp noncommittally, and proceeded to scratch his head.
After that there was silence for several minutes while he eyed Gian-Luca with suspicion; he had certainly met this type before, he decided—swells, and loonies, and suchlike, doing the simple; they generally tried to find out all about you, then wrote a lot of rubbish to the papers.
“Are you going very far?” inquired Gian-Luca, breaking the awkward pause.
“Middlin’,” he was told, and again there was silence as they trudged along side by side.
“This road leads to Basingstoke, I think,” remarked Gian-Luca.
“ ’Ook comes fust,” growled his Brother.
“Oh, does it?” said Gian-Luca.
“Yus, it do,” snapped the tramp; “ain’t yer looked at the signposts? Don’t yer know where yer goin’?”
Gian-Luca smiled at him: “Well, no, not exactly, but every road must lead somewhere in the end.”
And now the tramp felt thoroughly suspicious: “I suppose yer’ve come walkin’ out ’ere for fun; yer one of them crack-brains wot wants ter live simple. Blimey! you try it! It ain’t so darned simple to live no’ow, to my way of thinkin’.” Then he added quickly: “Or maybe yer a writer, one of them as writes for the papers.”
But Gian-Luca informed him that he had once been a waiter, and at this his companion looked a little more friendly: “A waiter, was yer? That sounds all right ter me—so nice and ’andy to the food.”
“I suppose so. I have thrown up my job quite lately. I used to be at the Doric.”
“Gawd!” muttered the tramp, “that swell plyce in Piccadilly? Yer spoilt, that’s wot you are; some folks never knows their blessin’s, not till they’ve lost ’em.”
Gian-Luca examined the man’s face more closely, noticing the restless eyes. He said: “You would never tolerate four walls—”
“Now then, wotch’yer gettin’ at!” scowled the tramp, glancing at Gian-Luca with annoyance.
At Hook the tramp bethought him of food, and he paused beside a shop window. The window was full of cold meats and pork pies, interlarded with rock cakes and apples.
But the tramp shook his head: “No, thanks,” he remarked. “I ain’t got the price of the Doric terdye, nor yet of the Berkeley neither—”
“You may choose!” said Gian-Luca.
“Go on!” said the tramp.
“You may choose; I mean it,” laughed Gian-Luca.
The tramp chose a couple of large pork pies and a goodly portion of beef. Gian-Luca chose bread and cheese and some apples.
“Well, I never!” scoffed his companion.
Farther on down the street Gian-Luca bought beer, then they hurried along through the town.
“Come on!” urged the tramp. “I knows a nice spot fer a picnic!” and he grinned with amusement.
Out beyond the town they came to a meadow; a large board was affixed to its gate: “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” read the board, but the tramp wormed his way through a gap in the hedge, and after him went Gian-Luca.
The tramp was soon mellow with pork pies and beer, his eyes grew more steady and friendly; and now he was talking of the life of the road as though he were talking to a Brother. Gian-Luca heard about the hard law of trespass, and how it might best be evaded; he learnt how a man could find comfort at night, in what type of barn it was safe to take refuge, what formation of hayrick provided good shelter, what species of watchdog was most to be feared, and what words were most likely to calm him. All these things he learnt and a great deal besides, including the right houses to beg at, for mystical signs would be found on gateposts, chalked there by considerate Brethren in passing; some were danger signals, some the other way round; every tramp understood these signals. Then just as his guest grew most eloquent down came a sharp April shower; Gian-Luca completely forgot his raincoat, as his wife might have guessed that he would do. When the shower had passed over, the tramp collected sticks from the sheltered side of the hedge, and choosing a nicely secluded corner, he proceeded to light a fire.
“Got to be careful of fires,” he said gravely; “getch yer into trouble, they does. Alwers let yer smoke blow away from the ’igh road, that is if yer can—see, mate?”
But Gian-Luca was not attending to the words; he was watching the creating of the fire from three paper bags, and a few dryish sticks collected on the lee-side of the hedge. There in that rain-soaked English meadow the prehistoric ritual was performed—the ageless ritual of the calling of fire to the help and service of man. Like a priest of old, the tramp stretched forth his hands in a gesture of command and benediction, and the flames leapt up to the summons of those hands.
“Kind of attrac’s it, flesh do,” he explained, looking up at Gian-Luca.
Then they crouched beside the fire and let themselves steam, glad enough of the warmth and comfort; and the clouds broke apart, leaving rifts of blue sky, while the fire did its best to dry them.
Presently they sidled out through the hedge, having carefully stamped on the glowing ashes, and they walked as far as Basingstoke together, where the tramp said goodbye to Gian-Luca. He was going to pick up some work at a farm that lay two miles away down a lane.
“Just enough to keep me goin’ fer a bit, so I’ll ’ave to wish yer good afternoon, mister.” He had suddenly grown suspicious again, too suspicious to call this man “mate.”
Gian-Luca said: “If I keep to the high road, where shall I come to in the end?”
The tramp considered: “If yer keeps right on this way, yer’ll be bound to come to the Noo Forest.”
“The trees were right, then,” murmured Gian-Luca; “I felt that they were trying to lead me—”
“Gawd!” laughed the tramp, “you are balmy, aren’t yer? Well, goodbye, mister, and thank yer.”
Gian-Luca strode forward along the road, while the afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened; but still he strode forward, not pausing to rest, for his thoughts ran before him to the forest. At King’s Watney, however, he must stay the night, for his feet were aching and swollen; indeed, he was aching a little all over, having tramped that day for twenty-five miles. Securing a room at the Horse and Ploughman, he gingerly took off his shoes and socks, only to discover that his heels were both blistered and the skin of his feet very tender. He bathed them, remembering old Fabio in the process. Fabio would have recommended rubbing with soap, and since he did not know what else to do, Gian-Luca tried his prescription. He finally rolled into bed with a sigh, and was lying between sleeping and waking; then his mind saw a picture quite clearly in the darkness, a thing that had not happened for years. There were wide, placid spaces and running water; but something more lovely than this he saw—a quiet and very beautiful gloom, green from the leaves that made it.
“They have come to me again, my pictures,” he murmured.
And that was the end of the third day.