As he did so the wind set him shivering,
and he knew that his bed had been warm.
"Come, I feel pretty fit," he thought. "I suppose I am lucky to wake
at all in this. Or unlucky--it isn't much of a business to come back
to." He looked up and saw the downs shining against the blue, like
the Alps on a picture-postcard. "That means another forty miles or
so, I suppose," he continued grimly. "Lord knows what I did yesterday.
Walked till I was done, and now I'm only about twelve miles from
Brighton. Damn the snow, damn Brighton, damn everything!" The sun
crept higher and higher, and he started walking patiently along the
road with his back turned to the hills.
"Am I glad or sorry that it was only sleep that took me, glad or
sorry, glad or sorry?" His thoughts seemed to arrange themselves in a
metrical accompaniment to the steady thud of his footsteps, and he
hardly sought an answer to his question. It was good enough to walk
to.
Presently, when three milestones had loitered past, he overtook a
boy who was stooping to light a cigarette. He wore no overcoat, and
looked unspeakably fragile against the snow, "Are you on the road,
guv'nor?" asked the boy huskily as he passed.
"I think I am," the tramp said.
"Oh! then I'll come a bit of the way with you if you don't walk too
fast. It's bit lonesome walking this time of day."
The tramp nodded his head, and the boy started limping along by his
side.
"I'm eighteen," he said casually.
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