A little old man sat crouched with his chin on his knees staring into the fire, and said, "Blight him! Blight him! Blight him!" without ceasing.

There was no more than room for the three of us, and we elbowed one another as we crouched by the fire.
He turned a rambling eye on us, but showed no surprise.
"Blight him! Blight him! Blight him!" said the little old man.
"Blight him! Blight him! Blight him!" said I, deeming it well to fall in with his humour.
"Ay--who ?" he asked.
"The one you mean." "Ay,--Blight him! Blight him! Blight him!" and he lifted a bottle from the ground between his knees, and took a pull at it, and passed it on to me.

I drank and passed it to Le Marchant, and the fiery spirit ran through my veins like new hot life.
"We are starving.

Give us to eat," I said, and the old man pointed to a hole in the side of the hut.

I thrust in my hand and found bread, dark coloured and coarse, but amazingly sweet and strengthening, and a lump of fat bacon.