He got up from his seat, walked over to the window, and looked out; he
stooped a little, and the back of his neck was hairy. I rose in my turn.
He looked round and walked towards me in his long, pointed shoes, stuck
both thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, waved his arms a little, as if
they were wings, and smiled. Then he offered me his boat again if ever I
wanted one, and held out his hand.
“Wait a minute--I'll go with you,” he said, and blew out the lamps.
“Yes, yes, I feel like a little walk. It's not so late.”
We went out.
He pointed up the road towards the blacksmith's and said:
“This way--it's the shortest.”
“No,” I said. “Round by the quay is the shortest way.”
We argued the point a little, and did not agree. I was convinced that I
was right, and could not understand why he insisted. At last he
suggested that we should each go his own way; the one who got there
first could wait at the hut.
We set off, and he was soon lost to sight in the wood.
I walked at my usual pace, and reckoned to be there a good five minutes
ahead. But when I got to the hut he was there already. He called out as
I came up:
“What did I say? I always go this way--it _is_ the shortest.”
I looked at him in surprise; he was not heated, and did not appear to
have been running. He did not stay now, but said good-night in a
friendly way, and went back the way he had come.
I stood there and thought to myself: This is strange! I ought to be some
judge of distance, and I've walked both those ways several times. My
good man, you've been fudging again. Was the whole thing a pretence?