There was no sign of the hermit. Matt Knight’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at the newspaper-wrapped parcel in his hands. Now what? He had hoped to discuss his problems with the recluse, and this pair of size eight hand-made shoes was a sweetener to make matters easier. Matt had measured a customer last year, but the poor wretch had died in a motorcycle accident, and nobody had come forward to pay for them.
Matt began to shout: “Mister Hermit, where are you? Come out, I have a gift for you!”
But there was no reply. After initial alarm calls, even the birds had stilled their songs. It seemed that the entire woodland was listening to the shoemaker’s disturbance. He wondered whether the hermit had hurt himself and needed help, so he joined in the silence and listened carefully. Nothing.
