And little better
than an hour later, having seen the invalid once more, and left him calm
and comfortable for the night, the novelist sallied forth to meet his
unknown correspondent.
It was a dark night, for the rain was by no means over, though not
actually falling at the moment; and the cross-roads, which lay low, with
trees in all four angles, was a dark spot at full moon. As he approached
with caution, rapping the road with his stick in order to steer clear
of the ditch, Langholm wished he had come on his bicycle, for the sake
of the light he might have had from its lamp; but a light there was,
ready waiting for him, though a very small and feeble one; for his
illiterate correspondent was on the ground before him, with a cutty-pipe
in full blast.
"Name of Langholm?" said a rather rollicking voice, with a rank puff and
a shower of sparks, as the cautious steps followed the rapping stick.
"That's it," said Langholm; "if yours is Abel, I have got your letter."
"You have, have you?" cried the other, with the same jovial familiarity.
"And what do you think of it?"
The glowing pipe lit a wild brown beard and mustache, thickly streaked
with gray, a bronzed nose, and nothing more.
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