“Granny, Granny, I’ve got him, he’s here—he’s in our shed!” Mrs Bowen stood transfixed, the toasting-fork raised in one hand. “Amy? Him?” “It’s all right, he won’t hurt us. He’s got a great horrible gash on his arm. I think it’s gone bad.” “Amy?” said Mrs Bowen again, absolutely unable to get out another word. “He’s foreign, Granny. It’s no use talking to him—he can’t understand. And we’ve fetched the ewe back up as well—she was down at Tyler’s Place with him. And Mrs Protheroe’s leg of mutton. He didn’t have a fire to cook it on—they’d have seen the smoke, wouldn’t they? I think that’s why he didn’t have a fire. Or it could have been he didn’t have any matches.” “You’ve been down to Tyler’s Place?—and that man was there?—and he did you no harm?” Amy triumphantly nodded her head to the first two questions and shook it with equal vigour for the last. “Oh, Amy—only to think what might have happened! Such madness!—whatever made you do it?”
