“Well, Tim,” said his master, “I suppose you are in want of something to warm you? What will you take?”
“You are very kind, Master Ned; I’ll take whisky—what you know I always takes when I be cold.”
He flung the horse-cloth aside, and discovered to the inmates his grinning countenance, which he had blackened.
“Lawd-a’-mercy ’pon us!” exclaimed the landlady, “is that your servant, sir?—mean no offence, your honour, only he’s rather ugly; he may be a good servant for all that, though,” said she.
“Yes; and a faithful one, too,” replied Ned, his master, laughing and telling a fib. “I brought him over from the West Indies with me about five years ago, and he has never left me since, not even in the midst of danger.”
“I believe you,” vociferated the murky blacksmith; “black persons are generally faithful.”
Ned Warbeck could not repress a smile, and ordered in some refreshment for Tim, who, without any ceremony, seated himself on a three-legged stool by the side of Ned, his master, the others willingly making room for him.
His ivory grinders were soon at work, and the whisky flask in a short time was emptied of its contents.
He had scarcely ended when Ned, feeling weary, requested the landlord to show him to a place of rest for the night.
“Willingly, sir,” said the landlord; “but I am hearty sorry I cannot give you a bed, for, d’ye see, we’ve got several farmers who’ve been to the fair near by, and they’re rum sort of chaps, who wouldn’t stir an inch for anyone; free and easy, sir. I will, as you observed, give you a place in the hay-loft, where you must put up for to-night with a truss of hay for your pillow.”