Dinner seemed nothing to him.

There he lay plucking grass, and patting the old dog's nose, as if incapable of conceiving what a thing hunger was.

Ripton took half-a-dozen turns up and down, and at last flung himself down beside the taciturn boy, accepting his fate.
Now, the chance that works for certain purposes sent a smart shower from the sinking sun, and the wet sent two strangers for shelter in the lane behind the hedge where the boys reclined.

One was a travelling tinker, who lit a pipe and spread a tawny umbrella.

The other was a burly young countryman, pipeless and tentless.