"I wouldn't say, your honour, as how one of the maids wouldn't oblige your—er—the good lady."
"For myself, landlord, for myself."
"I beg your honour's pardon."
Mr. Upex hurried off to execute his guest's requirement and presently returned to escort them to their rooms.
"When my man comes in," said the Beau, "send him up to me with the nightcap."
Pridgeon had rescued the wheel from the pond and, having successfully directed two bumpkins to trundle it to the blacksmith, arrived at the inn with an admiring retinue of idlers, whom he regaled with quarts of bitter beer. The woman of taste entrusted with the purchase of the nightcap (she was the scullerymaid) returned with the vestment neatly wrapped in paper, and, meeting her master on the stairs, was told to hand it to the diminutive groom, who chucked her under the chin with the parcel and took his bow-legged way upstairs to Mr. Ripple's temporary apartment.
Outside he rapped smartly on the door, which was cautiously opened sufficiently wide to allow the urbane countenance of the Beau to peer round the corner.
"Is that you, Pridgeon?"
"Me, y'r honour, with a present from Great Cobblebury."
The Beau took the nightcap, and in its place handed muddied smallcloaths, smeared coat, and wrinkled waistcoat.