“It is only my servant,” replied the young gentleman, entering, and shaking a broad-brimmed hat, dripping with wet.
At the same time he bade his servant lead the horse to an adjoining shed, the landlord’s stable being fully occupied.
It was none other than Wildfire Ned and Tim, on their way to London.
He then unclasped his cloak, which he threw upon a bench.
He was dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the navy.
The sexton, relaxing from his former harshness, invited the young officer to approach the fire, around which were seated five or six persons, whose uninteresting appearance requires but a few words.
The most conspicuous amongst the group was the landlady, a short, fat, buxom dame on the wrong side of forty, who might have been considered considerably handsome but for a small pair of twinkling eyes, disproportionate to the rest of her features.
At her right was seated the sexton.
A jolly, stout fellow, whose fiery face attested his devotedness to old Plymouth rum or nut-brown ale.
Next came the blacksmith of the parish, whose black leathern apron, spread over his knees, served as a screen for the landlady.