his extraordinary situation. The
real Tom, after four years of absence, might suddenly turn up at the
farm, or a letter might come from him at any moment. Again, in the
character of heir to the farm, the false Tom might be called on to sign
documents, which would be an embarrassing predicament. Or a relative
might arrive who would not imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness.
All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand,
the alternative was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to
the sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge from
destitution; farming was one of the many things he had "tried," and he
would be able to do a certain amount of work in return for the
hospitality to which he was so little entitled.

"Will you have cold pork for your supper," asked the hard-faced maid,
as she cleared the table, "or will you have it hotted up?"

"Hot, with onions," said Stoner. It was the only time in his life that
he had made a rapid decision. And as he gave the order he knew that he
meant to stay.

Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to have
been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When he took
part in the farm-work it was as one who worked under orders and never
initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and Bowker's pup were his
sole companions in a world that was otherwise frostily silent and
hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he saw nothing. Once, when he
knew she had gone forth to church, he made a furtive visit to the farm
parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the
young man whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had
fastened on himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or
stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among
them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across what he
wanted. There was a whole series, labelled "Tom," a podgy child of
three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about twelve, holding a
cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of
eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young
man with a somewhat surly dare-devil expression. At this last portrait
Stoner looked with particular interest; the likeness to himself was
unmistakable.

From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects,
he tried again and again to learn something of the nature of