* * * * *

Well, that is the whole of the incident.  The two haven’t met since, that I am aware.  And I scarcely know why I have included it in this book.  But I was able to put it together from various witnesses, documentary and personal, and it seemed a pity to leave it out.

CHAPTER IV

(I)

An enormous physical weariness settled down on Frank, as he trudged silently with the Major, towards evening, a week later.

He had worked all the previous day in a farm-yard—­carting manure, and the like; and though he was perfectly well again, some of the spring had ebbed from his muscles during his week’s rest.  This day, too, the first of November, had been exhausting.  They had walked since daybreak, after a wretched night in a barn, plodding almost in silence, mile after mile, against a wet south-west wind, over a discouraging kind of high-road that dipped and rose and dipped again, and never seemed to arrive anywhere.

It is true that Frank was no longer intensely depressed; quite another process had been at work upon him for the last two or three months, as will be seen presently; but his limbs seemed leaden, and the actual stiffness in his shoulders and loins made walking a little difficult.

They were all tired together.  They did not say much to one another.  They had, in fact, said all that there was to be said months ago; and they were reduced—­as men always are reduced when a certain pitch is reached—­to speak simply of the most elementary bodily things—­food, tobacco and sleep.  The Major droned on now and then—­recalling luxuries of past days—­actual roofs over the head, actual hot meat to put in the mouth, actual cigars—­and Frank answered him.  Gertie said nothing.

* * * * *

She made up for it, soon after dark had fallen, by quite suddenly collapsing into a hedge, and announcing that she would die if she didn’t rest.  The Major made the usual remarks, and she made no answer.

Frank interposed suddenly.

“Shut up,” he said.  “We can’t stop here.  I’ll go on a bit and see what can be done.”

And, as he went off into the darkness, leaving his bundle, he heard the scolding voice begin again, but it was on a lower key and he knew it would presently subside into a grumble, soothed by tobacco.

* * * * *

He had no idea as to the character of the road that lay before him.  They had passed through a few villages that afternoon, whose names meant nothing to him, and he scarcely knew why, even, they were going along this particular road.  They were moving southwards towards London—­so much had been agreed—­and they proposed to arrive there in another month or so.  But the country was unfamiliar to him, and the people seemed grudging and uncouth.  They had twice been refused the use of an outhouse for the night, that afternoon.