An extraordinary number of emotions had possession of me: the most intelligible one being a restless vexation at myself, as the principal person concerned, for not experiencing anything like the farmer's happiness.

I preferred a gipsy life to Riversley.
Gipsies were on the road, and that road led to my father.

I endeavoured to explain to Farmer Eckerthy that I was travelling in this direction merely to have a short look at Riversley; but it was impossible; he could not understand me.

The more I tried, the more he pressed me to finish my glass of ale, which had nothing to do with it.

I drank, nevertheless, and I suppose said many funny things in my anxiety that the farmer should know what I meant; he laughed enough.
While he was fielding against the opposite eleven, the tramp came into the booth, and we had a match of cunning.
'Schoolmaster's out after you, young gentleman,' said he, advising me to hurry along the road if I sought to baffle pursuit.
I pretended alarm, and then said, 'Oh, you'll stand by me,' and treated him to ale.
He assured me I left as many tracks behind me as if I went spilling a box of lucifer-matches.