The field was lit with the soft light of the setting
sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in
midair, was shining like a golden fire.
"What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging. What the devil!"
They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they had
gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.
"It's like a man with a golden helmet. He's got legs, he's coming to
us."
They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, "Why, it's only an old Scarecrow.
We might have guessed."
The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey.
The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in
the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can
hanging over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to
wink at them. The shadows came streaming up from the sea and the dark
woods below in the hollow drew closer to them.
The Scarecrow seemed to lament the departure of the light. "Here, mind,"
he said to the two of them, "you saw me in my glory just now and don't
you forget it. I may be a knight in shining armour after all.
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