Weasel. Well then, your honour, yesterday was a cold evening, d’ye see, and as I was stirring the kitchen fire there comes a knock, and I goes to the door, your honour.
Col. Well.
Weasel. There stands a tall, genteel-like lad with a ragged coat. And he would give me no name, but he said he was a Wanderer, and asked for a night’s lodging. So Mrs. Judith, who never can refuse any one, ordered the spare bed to be got ready for him.
Col. So I turned him out, hey, Weasel? There’s the secret of the pigs; but why this mystery?
Weasel. Mystery, Sir, ay, that’s the word; but if your honour was to hear what followed!
Col. What? where did they put him?
Weasel. [Lowering his voice.] When it was night, your honour, what sees I through the chink of the kitchen door in the passage but the three young Ladies lugging along a great bundle, and stopping and panting and puffing? So says I, I’ll see to the bottom of this, so I pops out suddenly and says, ‘Can I help you, Misses?’ quite civil like. But O Sir, how Miss Sophy trembled and turned as white as a lily, and Miss Ratty stamped and sent me to the village—at that hour, your honour, company in the house—the ground covered with frost—I subject to the rheumatics—and what for, d’ye think? to get her twopenceworth of shoe-ribbon, your honour; and when I brought it, would you believe it?—she roared out that it was too narrow and sent me back again.
Col. Most strange! most unaccountable! Have you any guess what was in the bundle?
Weasel. I winked at it, your honour. There was a mattress and blankets, I’m sure.
Col. For the Stranger, I suppose. But this mystery! I cannot understand it. Where could they be going?