“Thy name?”
Being by this time angered, I did a foolish thing; which was, to clap the muzzle of my pistol against the grating, close to the fellow’s nose. Singular to say, the trick serv’d me. A bolt was slipp’d hastily back and the wicket door opened stealthily.
“I want,” said I, “room for my horse to pass.”
Thereupon more grumbling follow’d, and a prodigious creaking of bolts and chains; after which the big gate swung stiffly back.
“Sure, you must be worth a deal,” I said, “that shut yourselves in so careful.”
Before me stood a strange fellow—extraordinary old and bent, with a wizen’d face, one eye only, and a chin that almost touched his nose. He wore a dirty suit of livery, that once had been canary-yellow; and shook with the palsy.
“Master Tingcomb will see the young man,” he squeak’d, nodding his head; “but is a-reading just now in his Bible.”
“A pretty habit,” answered I, leading in Molly—“if unseasonable. But why not have said so?”
He seem’d to consider this for a while, and then said abruptly—
“Have some pasty and some good cider?”