An old shuffling woman was coming towards him. She was so old and so bent that, it seemed, to stoop a little lower would complete her circuit of days. A great mobcap was perched on her wrinkled poll, and under it her eyes ran moist with the humours of long-decayed passions.
“Where is the landlord of this tavern?” thundered Mr. Tuke.
The last trump would have done no more than tickle her auriculum.
“Eh!” she said, chafing her miserable old hands.
“Where is Breeds?” he roared.
“To be sure,” she whined, “he went off arly to Stockbridge.”
“And left you in charge—you unconscionable old beldame?” he added under his breath.
“Aye, aye,” she answered. “In charge to wake the gen’leman as had fell asleep over his cups.”
“And where are the others—the three who are stopping in the house?”
“I know nowt about en. There be nubbody here but you. I come fro’ Gorepit yon to do the tending when Breeds goes a-jaunting. He said nowt about anybody but you; and that your nag were in the stable.”