A NIGHT OUT 155 



At first I catch only the heaviest beat in each 

 bar, then a short of dotted common time by which 

 I know that the horse is trotting. Shortly it 

 drops to a walk, and I know exactly how far 

 away it is. The well-fed and somewhat aged beast 

 is going up Bindles' Pitch. He draws behind him 

 a low-wheeled vehicle with a comfortable farmer 

 in it. 



Late at night for Farmer B to be out, for 



that 's who it is for a shilling. Four good miles 

 away and not a ray of light to aid me, but I can 



see Farmer B dozing behind his grey mare, 



on whose neck the reins have fallen as she bows 

 her head to the slight work of climbing Bindles' 

 Pitch. I think I could make out an alibi for 



Farmer B if they should accuse him of being 



ten miles in the other direction at this moment. 

 Now comes the top of the ' pitch,' and the grey 

 horse begins to trot again. Just as I can almost 

 hear the sound of wheels he turns off, and the 

 sound of his trotting grows dim. He has taken 

 the way to Farmer B 's house. 



There will not be any more noises on the high 

 road for an hour or two. On the hill under the 

 larch trees night seems to be holding its breath, 

 so tensely silent is the world. As I go near a 

 holly bush a clatter within sends the heart into 

 my mouth. It is only some small bird disturbed 

 on its roost. A tiny pipe far up the sky tells me 

 that it has gone up towards the stars. Will it 

 fly in that direction till it bursts and falls, as a 



