The Traveller found in the repast a new excuse for silence. He ate with a most prodigious and most contagious appetite; and in a few seconds the knife and fork of the Corporal were as busily engaged as if he had only three minutes to spare between a march and a dinner.
“This is a pretty, retired spot,” quoth the Traveller, as at length he finished his repast, and threw himself back on his chair—a very pretty spot. Whose neat old-fashioned house was that I passed on the green, with the gable-ends and the flower-plots in front?
“Oh, the Squire’s,” answered Peter; “Squire Lester’s an excellent gentleman.”
“A rich man, I should think, for these parts; the best house I have seen for some miles,” said the Stranger carelessly.
“Rich—yes, he’s well to do; he does not live so as not to have money to lay by.”
“Any family?”
“Two daughters and a nephew.”
“And the nephew does not ruin him. Happy uncle! Mine was not so lucky,” said the Traveller.
“Sad fellows we soldiers in our young days!” observed the Corporal with a wink. “No, Squire Walter’s a good young man, a pride to his uncle!”
“So,” said the pedestrian, “they are not forced to keep up a large establishment and ruin themselves by a retinue of servants?—Corporal, the jug.”