"Oh yes, oh yes there have been some real diamonds, rubies and gems out here on the road," he says through a smile which is quickly clouded behind tobacco smoke chimneyed out from his nostrils. His top hat clip-clops from side to side in tandem with his labored gait.
"What's the strangest you've come across ?" you ask in the hopes of keeping your walking journey enlivened and amusing. The landscape is mostly barren with several poplar trees denuded of green. A small bridge crossing a river is the only hint of civilization in this stretch of pastoralism. In short, you are bored, in need of entertainment.
"Well..." His eyes seem to roll back into his head to search for some long forgotten tale at the back of his brains. "There was the case of the oil which was struck in the temple of a Fitzpatrick down in South Carolina. A liter of oil a day from an inch above the end of his left eyebrow. Not much but enough to keep the tracker in his field rolling. Paradise oil everyone called it, nothing sweeter than something that's free."
He breathes heavily under the weight of his two-hundred plus pounds.
"Yet in spite of all that value that poured forth from his brow, he was a miserable son of a bitch that wouldn't give you the time of day or night."
You wait in anticipation for some unique story about this man to begin.
"He died," he sighs and walks along the path in silence.