I had come far out of my way, so I retraced my steps to the intersection of the paths, and thence made for the inn by my accustomed route.  The light failed under the roofing of foliage long before I was free of the woods, and I emerged upon the road to Les Trois Pigeons when twilight had turned to dusk.

Not far along the road from where I came into it, stood an old, brown, deep-thatched cottage—­a branch of brushwood over the door prettily beckoning travellers to the knowledge that cider was here for the thirsty; and as I drew near I perceived that one availed himself of the invitation.  A group stood about the open door, the lamp-light from within disclosing the head of the house filling a cup for the wayfarer; while honest Mere Baudry and two generations of younger Baudrys clustered to miss no word of the interchange of courtesies between Pere Baudry and his chance patron.

It afforded me some surprise to observe that the latter was a most mundane and elaborate wayfarer, indeed; a small young man very lightly made, like a jockey, and point-device in khaki, puttees, pongee cap, white-and-green stock, a knapsack on his back, and a bamboo stick under his arm; altogether equipped to such a high point of pedestrianism that a cynical person might have been reminded of loud calls for wine at some hostelry in the land of opera bouffe.  He was speaking fluently, though with a detestable accent, in a rough-and-ready, pick-up dialect of Parisian slang, evidently under the pleasant delusion that he employed the French language, while Pere Baudry contributed his share of the conversation in a slow patois.  As both men spoke at the same time and neither understood two consecutive words the other said, it struck me that the dialogue might prove unproductive of any highly important results this side of Michaelmas; therefore, discovering that the very pedestrian gentleman was making some sort of inquiry concerning Les Trois Pigeons, I came to a halt and proffered aid.

“Are you looking for Madame Brossard’s?” I asked in English.

The traveller uttered an exclamation and faced about with a jump, birdlike for quickness.  He did not reply to my question with the same promptness; however, his deliberation denoted scrutiny, not sloth.  He stood peering at me sharply until I repeated it.  Even then he protracted his examination of me, a favour I was unable to return with any interest, owing to the circumstance of his back being toward the light.  Nevertheless, I got a clear enough impression of his alert, well-poised little figure, and of a hatchety little face, and a pair of shrewd little eyes, which (I thought) held a fine little conceit of his whole little person.  It was a type of fellow-countryman not altogether unknown about certain “American Bars” of Paris, and usually connected (more or less directly) with what is known to the people of France as “le Sport.”

“Say,” he responded in a voice of unpleasant nasality, finally deciding upon speech, “you’re ’Nummeric’n, ain’t you?”