stands the wee house . . . that height,” and he made a gesture of indication. “I don’t remember who . . .” Boura was searching his memory.
The redhaired man bent towards him, evoking memories, energetically, his eyes staring and drawn together in concentration of thought:
“It was . . . let me see . . . Hanousek, yes, Hanousek the beggar who lived there!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“With his daughters,” added Boura joyfully.
“That’s it. They had small reddish eyes . . . and I used to eat there.”
“Hallo! I did not know that!” said Boura in surprise.
“Yes. They toasted bread for me, all the old beggar used to bring home, crusts, remains, beans . . . all sorts of horrible things. I ate them all. Then I used to lie down on the beggar’s bed and feed his bugs.”
“So that’s how we often had such trouble in finding you,” said Boura with a smile.
“No, when you called me, I was generally buried in the tall grass on the top of the ridge. No one knew that place and I had a regular hare’s den there from which, far down, I could see our house. I could see Mother go out and call me, hear her weep for love and anxiety. It gave me a sensation of wickedness and sweetness together. Not for the world would I have given sign of life. I was afraid she might see me and yet I made signs to her. I only wanted to show myself just a little, not enough for her to recognise me.”
“Yes, she used often to search for you.”
“Aye, often. I wanted to try, to see whether she would search. I crouched in my hole, holding my breath, waiting for her to come. She called, she searched, but she no longer cried. Then, one day she never came out at all. That day I waited till evening, although I was rather afraid alone up there. But she did not come, and I never went back to the ridge after that. I started wandering further afield.”
“Where are you living now?”
“In Africa. I thought no one cared for me. That is why I set out wandering. I wanted to see whether anything would happen to me. That was the kind of sensation
