Now, the first dwelling in the village of Hockliffe as you enter it by Watling Street from the south is a small double-fronted house with a small stable at the side thereof. A vast chestnut-tree stands in front of it, and at this point the telegraph-wires, which elsewhere run thickly on both sides of the road, are all carried on the left side, so as not to interfere with the chestnut-tree. Over the front-door of the house, which is set back in a tiny garden, is a sign to this effect: ‘Puddephatt, Wine Merchant.’ Having descried the sign, the observant traveller will probably descry rows of bottles in one of the windows of the house.
As Richard sauntered down the road in search of he knew not what, Mr. Puddephatt happened to be leaning over his railings—a large, stout man, dressed in faded gray, with a red, cheerful face and an air of unostentatious prosperity.
‘Morning,’ said Puddephatt.
‘Morning,’ said Richard.
‘Fine morning, said Mr. Puddephatt.
Richard accepted the proposition and agreed that it was a fine morning. Then he slackened speed and stopped in front of Mr. Puddephatt.
‘You are Mr. Puddephatt?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘I suppose, you haven’t got any Hennessy 1875 in stock?’
‘Have I any Hennessy 1875 in stock, sir? Yes, I have, sir. Five-and-six a bottle, and there’s no better brandy nowhere.’