He spent the afternoon in prospecting for likely badger setts and foxes' holes and, finding himself alone in the wide waste over which a visitor could be distinguished a long way off, he discovered a spot along the water at which, under the nearside bank, where the river turned a sharpish bend, there was a natural bathing-place four or five feet deep. It was not big enough for swimming, but proved to be an excellent hole for a cold and refreshing dip. All afternoon he did not see a soul, but, on taking a brisk walk after his rough towelling, he heard, in the woods at the far side of the heath, the sound of foresters felling a mighty tree.
He returned to the hotel for tea. He had decided that there was no point in spending time shopping in the village, and there was no farm near enough to make it worth the trouble of carrying milk, water and eggs back to his camp. Richardson, besides, was a good trencherman but an indifferent cook. Neither did he want to spend time collecting dead wood for a fire, although the Forest by-laws allowed for this. He had, too, (after hearing of the devastating experience of a friend), a dread of starting a conflagration. His sleeping-bag of wool and camel-hair provided sufficient warmth at night, and comfort was assured by the inflatable mattress on which, over a groundsheet, it rested. He thought that he would be perfectly happy until his friend arrived on the Saturday.
He enjoyed his tea and lingered over it. When he took the road again it was ten minutes to five. He passed two girls on horseback; and several cars and a lorry either passed or overtook him; otherwise the world, so far as he was concerned, was empty of human beings. He reached camp and decided to continue to follow the course of the river. It was not possible to keep close to the bank because of bushes, thick and dense in places, and some patches of marshy ground, but he met the water again at frequent intervals and came, at last, to the borders of a wood.
Here all trace of a path was lost. He continued to follow the stream until impenetrable thickets and a good deal of mud made progress less than tolerable. He struck back, through the trees-pine, oak and beech-and regained the open heath. A fair, broad trackway, recently used by wheeled vehicles, led him between gorse and bramble towards his tent.
He was within a quarter of a mile of his camp when he spotted the runners. There were two of them jogging along across the heath, apparently out for a training spin, for they were obviously in no hurry. In fact, as he watched, they slowed up and then stopped. Rather to his surprise, the shorter of them put field-glasses to his eyes and, after scanning the countryside for a full three minutes, he handed the glasses to his companion.
The men were a couple of hundred yards away and it was impossible to gain an impression of anything more than their height and general build, yet something about the taller man struck a chord in Richardson's memory. Tantalisingly, however, he could not recall the circumstances under which he must have met the man. As the fellow was in running kit, however, he assumed that he must be a member of some club with which his own had been associated.
He walked on and then glanced sideways and a little behind him. The taller man was handing back the glasses. They were an odd sort of burden to carry on a cross-country run, Richardson thought. The only rational explanation seemed to be that the two men were to be the hares in a hare-and-hounds chase and were plotting their route. What they had appeared to be watching, however, was a group of forest ponies which had come into view against the dark trees of a fir wood, a Forestry plantation away over to Richardson's right.
He made his way back to camp and when he got there he spread his anorak on the ground, sat down on it and lit a pipe. He smoked very little, for he was always in reasonably good training, but a pipe helped contemplation and seemed to fit in with the quiet of the approaching evening.
When he had finished the pipe and knocked it out on to some mud at the edge of the stream, he put everything ready for the night and went off to have dinner at the hotel. He had not expected to see the two runners again, but they must have taken a long cast round when they reached the fencing of the fir wood, for they had come out upon the common. They were near enough now for him to see the taller man more clearly. This time he recognised him. He was the A. B. Colnbrook of the cross-country inter-club incident and the chief actor in another encounter which Richardson still thought of with distaste.
He had no desire to meet the fellow again, and, fortunately, there was no chance of this, for, even as he recognised Colnbrook, the two runners, who had again been using their field-glasses although the light was failing fast, picked up their feet and cantered off on the path which Richardson himself had just left.
On the following morning, having breakfasted at the hotel, he walked into the village for letters. There was a postcard from the friend who had planned to join him.
'Can't manage this week-end. Have to come on Monday at about half-past eleven,' was the gist of the information it contained. Richardson was not at all sorry. He was enjoying his solitude and to have the time of it extended for two or three days did not trouble him, but rather the reverse. He thrust the postcard into his jacket pocket, bought cigarettes, sweets and fruit in the village, stopped a moment at the water-splash to watch a foal which had found some herbage on the bank there, crossed by the footbridge and tramped along the winding road to the hotel. He stayed for lunch and then went for a walk over the common. He photographed a mare and her foal, saw a hare but was not able to get a picture, and took a long cast round which he hoped would bring him back on to the heath.
He covered about eleven miles, using the Ordnance map and a pocket compass, and reached camp too late, he noted ruefully, to go back and get tea at the hotel. He took a plunge in his water-hole, the second that day, and decided to get to the hotel by about seven, have a drink before dinner and then, after dinner, try his luck with flashlight at the entrance to a badgers' sett which a forester he met had pointed out to him.
The sett was about a mile and a half from his camp, in a bank in the middle of the woods. By the time he reached his tent, after having dined at the hotel, the September evening was chilly. He added a thick sweater to his shirt and pullover, then, camera and bulb in hand, he set off for his objective. He carried, besides, a small electric torch, for the going was made treacherous at times by ant-hills and low-growing gorse and the night was moonless and dark.
He took up his position and waited for the better part of two hours. He became cramped and chilly, but there was no sign of brock. There were the usual whisperings and movements of a forest at night, and the brown owls were calling, but, from Richardson's point of view, his vigil was fruitless. He returned to camp, took off his shoes and his jacket and crawled into his tent. His sleeping-bag was warmly lined and the rubber mattress was gratefully springy. In no time at all he was asleep.
Bird-song woke him early. Dawn was at hand and the half-light was eerie. He emerged from his sleeping-bag with care and crawled out of the tent. The trees in the distant wood, where he had watched for the badgers, were no more than a bluish-black blur and when (almost suddenly, it seemed) the bird-song ceased, he could hear the river which, in full daylight, had seemed soundless, rippling softly in song over stones.
The light broadened fast, as, pulling a towel from his pack, he went off to his water-hole for a dip. The stream was agonisingly cold and, when he was dry and had dressed, he went for a run. Breakfast at the hotel was not served before eight, so he trotted towards the gravelled road which led one way to the house he had seen and the other way to the wide wooden bridge. Twenty yards or so beyond the bridge, he still followed the road, where it bent to the left, and trotted on.