Then what? He
was still undecided when he perceived the objects of his attention
emerging. He backed a little farther into the bushes.
They stood for an instant, listening apparently. The man no longer
carried the sack. They exchanged a few inaudible words. Then they
crossed the clearing and entered the wood a few yards to his
right. He could hear the crackling of their footsteps diminishing
in the direction of the road.
A devouring curiosity seized upon Mr Pickering. He wanted, more
than he had wanted almost anything before in his life, to find out
what the dickens they had been up to in there. He listened. The
footsteps were no longer audible. He ran across the clearing and
into the shack. It was then that he discovered that he had no
matches.
This needless infliction, coming upon him at the crisis of an
adventurous night, infuriated Mr Pickering. He swore softly. He
groped round the walls for an electric-light switch, but the shack
had no electric-light switch. When there was need to illuminate it
an oil lamp performed the duty. This occurred to Mr Pickering
after he had been round the place three times, and he ceased to
grope for a switch and began to seek for a match-box. He was still
seeking it when he was frozen in his tracks by the sound of
footsteps, muffled but by their nearness audible, just outside the
door.
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