A portly individual in a white apron filled up the doorway as Peace arrived in front of the old village inn, in the front of which was a horse-trough, a large chestnut tree, and a post bearing at its top the sign of the house.
“Good day, friend,” said Peace to the host of the “Carved Lion.” “I’m wearied and footsore, and crave a little rest and refreshment.”
“Both are at your service, neighbour,” returned the landlord, making way for the newcomer by withdrawing into the bar.
Peace entered the parlour, and in a few minutes a mug of ale, together with some cold meat and pickles, were served him, which he devoured with evident relish.
Meanwhile those in the skittle ground were busily occupied.
“Come on, lads, another ge-ame!” cried a lusty, young fellow, with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulder. “Come on, mates, one more. Ye doant mean to say ye ha don yet.”
“I doant know ’xactly what to say about it,” replied a middle-aged man, who was also in his shirt sleeves. “I tell ye what it be, ye a deal too good for me, a doubt.”
“Noa—noa, come on,” returned the other, with the mellifluity of a Whitechapel skittle sharper. “Never fear, guv’nor, luck will be sure to change. Doant be so quavery mavery over it. Let’s have one more pint for I’m jolly dry.”
“You start first, then.”
“Get out of my way some of you chaps, and make yourselves look less,” said the young man, in a voice prophetic of victory.