Тридцать девять ступеней

           Nowmylifeontheveldhasgivenmetheeyesofakite,andIcanseethingsforwhichmostmenneedatelescope....Awaydowntheslope,acoupleofmilesaway,severalmenwereadvancing,likearowofbeatersatashoot.

           Idroppedoutofsightbehindthesky-line.Thatwaywasshuttome,andImusttrythebiggerhillstothesouthbeyondthehighway.ThecarIhadnoticedwasgettingnearer,butitwasstillalongwayoffwithsomeverysteepgradientsbeforeit.Iranhard,crouchinglowexceptinthehollows,andasIranIkeptscanningthebrowofthehillbeforeme.Wasitimagination,ordidIseefigures—one,two,perhapsmore—movinginaglenbeyondthestream?

           Ifyouarehemmedinonallsidesinapatchoflandthereisonlyonechanceofescape.Youmuststayinthepatch,andletyourenemiessearchitandnotfindyou.Thatwasgoodsense,buthowonearthwasItoescapenoticeinthattable-clothofaplace?Iwouldhaveburiedmyselftotheneckinmudorlainbelowwaterorclimbedthetallesttree.Buttherewasnotastickofwood,thebog-holeswerelittlepuddles,thestreamwasaslendertrickle.Therewasnothingbutshortheather,andbarehillbent,andthewhitehighway.

           Theninatinybightofroad,besideaheapofstones,Ifoundtheroadman.

           Hehadjustarrived,andwaswearilyflingingdownhishammer.Helookedatmewithafishyeyeandyawned.

           “ConfoondthedayIeverlefttheherdin’!”hesaid,asiftotheworldatlarge.“ThereIwasmyainmaister.