Monty's furtive glance inland, his half-frightened, half-cunning denial of any anticipated visit suggested that there was some one else who was interested in his existence, and some one too with whom he shared a secret.

Trent lit a cigar and sat down upon the sandy turf.

Monty resumed his digging.

Trent watched him through the leaves of a stunted tree, underneath which he had thrown himself.
For an hour or more nothing happened.

Trent smoked, and Monty, who had apparently forgotten all about his visitor, plodded away amongst the potato furrows, with every now and then a long, searching look towards the town.