“What for no’, if ye’re a friend o’ his?” she asked.  “It’s a lang road to Jedburgh.  But ye’ll be wanting some supper.”

Foster confessed that he was hungry and after a time sat down to a plain but appetizing meal.  When this was over he gave his host his tobacco pouch and for an hour or two they talked and smoked.  The man farmed a patch of sour moss-land, but he was marked by a grave politeness and asked his guest no awkward questions.  Foster thought the woman was studying him, but she restrained her curiosity and he admitted that the manners of both were remarkably good.  He was beginning to understand and like the lowland Scots, though he saw that some of the opinions he had formed about them were wrong.

They were reserved, essentially practical, and industrious, but they had, when one came to know them, a certain reckless humor that one did not often find among Englishmen.  Then they were marked by an individualistic independence of character that made them impatient of authority.  They were not turbulent or given to protesting about freedom, but they could not be cajoled or driven.  It was strange to find a well-organized fraternity of poachers in a quiet, law-keeping country, but one must allow something for habits inherited from moss-trooper ancestors.  Foster had noted their respect for good landlords of ancient stock, but this did not prevent them using the landlord’s salmon and game.  Since he had, so to speak, been made a member of the band, it was comforting to feel that they could be trusted, and he was somehow sure of this.

He slept soundly in the cupboard bed and made an excuse for staying at the farm next day, but as he stood outside the house in the afternoon his host came up.

“There were two men on the Jedburgh road asking about a stranger on a walking tour.”

“Ah!” said Foster.  “Do you know whether they asked if the man they wanted wore a glove?”

“They did that!”

Foster pondered.  He was being searched for, and his host knew he was the man inquired about, but the old fellow’s face was expressionless.

“Since I didn’t get so far as the road, they’d learn nothing.”

The other’s eyes twinkled.  “I wouldna’ say they would find out much if they cam’ up here.”

“Well,” said Foster, “I don’t know yet if I’ll go on to-day or not.”

“Ye ken best aboot that,” the farmer answered with Scottish dryness.  “I dinna’ see much objection if ye’re for stopping another night.”

He went off, but Foster felt satisfied that he was safe with him, and presently strolled round to the peat-stack where he sat down in the sun.  There was a hollow where the peats had been pulled out, and the brown dust was warm and dry.  Lighting his pipe, he began to think.  He was being watched, but whether by the police, or Daly, or somebody else, there was nothing to show.  He did not think his poaching adventure had much to do with it, but he had taken the packet to Newcastle, although he had been warned against this.  There was a mystery about the packet.