The passerby, whoever he was--a native probably--would, if he saw me, ask questions concerning my luck, and be almost sure to tell every one he met.

I left my fire unkindled, stepped back to the shade of the bushes and waited in silence, hoping the driver would go on without stopping.
There was no real road on this side of the pond, but there was an abandoned wood track, like that by which I had come.

The horse was approaching along the track; the sounds of hoofs and crackling branches grew plainer.
The odd part of it was that I heard no rattle of wheels.

It was almost as if the person was on horseback.

This seemed impossible, because no one in Denboro or Bayport--no one I could think of, at least--owned or rode a saddle horse.