"It must be Caleb," he thought, and stared around.

No Caleb was in sight, but he noticed that the sun was dropping towards the west, and noticed also, not fifty yards to the left, and quietly cropping a tuft of bushes, a red bull.
Now Mr.Fogo had an extreme horror of bulls, especially red bulls, and this one was not merely red, but looked savage, to boot.
Mr.Fogo peered again round the corner of his umbrella.

The brute luckily had not spied him, but neither did it seem in any hurry to move.

For twenty minutes Mr.Fogo waited behind his shelter, and still the bull went on cropping.
It was already late, and the brute stood full in the homeward path to Kit's House.

It was only possible to make a circuit around the ridge, as the cliff's edge cut off a _detour_ on the other side.
Weary of waiting, Mr.Fogo cautiously rose, pushed his easel under the bushes, and began to creep up towards the ridge, holding his umbrella in front of him as a screen.