chattering, and the feeling of dissatisfaction was growing stronger and stronger. His chest was beginning to hurt. He threw his gun down, sighed, shook himself, then took the gun up again and went on.
He was a tall fellow, almost a giant, with a small head of dark hair; his eyes usually looked a little dim, and he never quite knew his own mind. Whatever he decided to do, he was always sorry afterwards that he had missed doing the other thing.
He did not go back to his dinner at the forester’s house, but went down into the village. He knew he would meet his companion there, the under-forester from the next beat. He felt a need for talk and for a good, deep draught.
As soon as he came into the village, he met Flandara by the first cottage. He was perfectly sound, and bowed to him with the irony of the ever evasive. His smile was condescending and at the same time sarcastic, and his politeness that of a rich peasant bowing to the squire who is head over ears in debt to him. Martin had no feeling of relief.
‘Faugh!’ he ejaculated, and shook himself as he passed the poacher. He went into the
