"This track must lead somewhere. Let's get to shelter for the night," said Jack.
"Agreed!" replied Tom magnanimously. "We'll follow on, and see what we shall see."
They walked slowly, pulling at the pack-horse, which was dragging at the rope, tired with the burden that grew every minute heavier with the rain.
"There is somebody behind," he said. "It's _not_ the wind."
They sat there on their horses in the rain, and waited. Twilight was falling. Then Jack could distinguish the sound of a cart behind. It was Rackett in the old shay rolling along in the lonely dusk and rain, through the trees, approaching. Black Sam grinned mightily as he pulled up.
"Thought I'd follow, though you are on the wrong road," said Rackett from beneath his black waterproof. "Sam showed me the turning two miles back. You missed it. Anyhow we'd better camp in on these people ahead here."
"Yes," replied Rackett. "Even a sort of relation of yours, that I promised Gran I would come and see. Hence my following on your heels."
"Didn't know I'd any relation hereabouts," said Tom sulkily. He couldn't bear Rackett's interfering in the family in any way.
"You haven't. I meant Jack. But we'll get along, shall we?"
"We're a big flood," remarked Tom. "But if they'll give us the barn, well manage. It's getting wet to sleep out."
They pressed ahead, the pack-horse trotting, but lifting up his head like a venomous snake, in unwillingness. They had come into the open fields. At last in the falling dark they saw a house and buildings. A man hove in sight, but lurked away from them. Rackett hailed him. The man seemed to oppose their coming further. He was a hairy, queer figure, with his untrimmed beard.
"Master never takes no strangers," he said.
Rackett slipped a shilling in his hand, and would he ask his master if they might camp in the barn, out of the rain.
"Y' ain't the police, now, by any manner of means?" asked the man.
"We're no police," said Tom. "I'm Tom Ellis, from Wandoo, over York way."
"Ellis! I heared th' name. Well, master's sick, an' skeered to death o' th' police. They're ready to drop in on the place, that they are, rot 'em, the minute he breathes his last. And he's skeered he's dyin' this time. Oh, he's skeered o' t. So I have me doubts of all strangers. I have me doubts, no matter what they be. Master he've sent a letter to his only relation upon earth, to his nephew, which thank the Lord he's writ for to come an' lay hold on the place, against he dies. If there's no one to lay hold, the police steps in, without a word. That's how they do it. They lets the places in grants like--lets a man have a grant--and when the poor man dies, his place is locked up by the Government. They takes it all."