The things we do!

From sheer habit I would have gone into the churchyard here as well. I
said:
"What do you think? We might find a place here for the night?"
"No sense on earth in that," said Falkenberg, "when there's hay in every
barn along the road. And if we're turned out, there'll be shelter in the
woods."
And we went on again, Falkenberg leading.
He was a man of something over thirty. Tall and well-built, but with a
slight stoop; his long moustaches rounded downwards. He was short of
speech for the most, quick-witted and kindly; also he had a splendid voice
for songs; a different sort from Grindhusen in every way. And when he
spoke he used odd words from different local dialects, with a touch of
Swedish here and there; no one could tell what part he came from.
We came to a farmstead where the dogs barked, and folk were still about.
Falkenberg asked to see the man. A lad came out.
Had he any work for us?
No.
But the fence there along by the road was all to pieces, if we couldn't
mend that, now?
No.


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