What Van Cheele saw on this particular afternoon was, however,
something far removed from his ordinary range of experience. On a
shelf of smooth stone overhanging a deep pool in the hollow of an
oak coppice a boy of about sixteen lay asprawl, drying his wet brown
limbs luxuriously in the sun. His wet hair, parted by a recent
dive, lay close to his head, and his light-brown eyes, so light that
there was an almost tigerish gleam in them, were turned towards Van
Cheele with a certain lazy watchfulness. It was an unexpected
apparition, and Van Cheele found himself engaged in the novel
process of thinking before he spoke. Where on earth could this
wild-looking boy hail from? The miller's wife had lost a child some
two months ago, supposed to have been swept away by the mill-race,
but that had been a mere baby, not a half-grown lad.
"What are you doing there?" he demanded.
"Obviously, sunning myself," replied the boy.
"Where do you live?"
"Here, in these woods."
"You can't live in the woods," said Van Cheele.
"They are very nice woods," said the boy, with a touch of patronage
in his voice.
"But where do you sleep at night?"
"I don't sleep at night; that's my busiest time."
Van Cheele began to have an irritated feeling that he was grappling
with a problem that was eluding him.
"What do you feed on?" he asked.
"Flesh," said the boy, and he pronounced the word with slow relish,
as though he were tasting it.
"Flesh! What Flesh?"
"Since it interests you, rabbits, wild-fowl, hares, poultry, lambs
in their season, children when I can get any; they're usually too
well locked in at night, when I do most of my hunting.
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