No fop of the King’s court could have looked more elegant; his Continental coat, cocked hat and high shining boots were of the latest cut—not less offensive to the simple taste of the horse was his insolent swagger.
Master Knickerbocker, of course, did not notice Morgan, but cried to Evans persuadingly:
“Tarry the night, my Green Mountain Giant, we can show you rare sport at cards if you’ve money in your purse.”
Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Mountains would have towered over Beacon Hill. He gazed down at him with contempt, vaguely, yet not definitely, recognizing his one-time antagonist in a race, as Morgan had.
“I have no money to lose to you, my young sir,” he made reply, ungraciously. “I am but a simple farmer, and I play with none but my own kind. I do not know the rules by which such as you handle the cards!”
“Then join us in a glass of Medford rum—such as you Vermonters know so well how to appreciate—’tis cold outside and the landlord will mull us a bowl. Come, I say!”
He clapped the farmer hospitably on the shoulder in friendly fashion, and led the way into the tavern.
A kind bar-maid came out and threw a fur square over Morgan’s shivering back and give him a warm mash, which comforted him greatly. He acknowledged her friendliness, by nipping her sleeve gently with his lip; and as she was fond of horses, this pleased her, and she further brought him joy by patting his face gently and murmuring little love-talk in his ears.
Many hours later the side door opened and the Coxcomb came out. He was talking to himself as he closed the door behind him, blotting out the sudden radiance from the great, roaring fire inside the tavern. He did not notice Morgan, though he almost touched him in the darkness as he paced to and fro.
“Egad!” he cried, under his breath; “the fellow had money—but he has it not. Let him go back where he belongs, to his land of hemlock and frost-bitten, half-civilized race…. Yet,” and he almost sighed—not quite, “even I awakened to a slight feeling of compunction when he turned out the toe of a woman’s stocking and confessed it was his last shilling—money, he remembered too late, his wife had given him to buy a calico gown…. Ha! Calico, at the trifle of three shillings the yard! Mistress Lloyd”—here Morgan pricked his ears back and forth—“Mistress Lloyd wears silks and satins, and her laces are like cobwebs…. Oddsbodikins! There is a maid to turn a man’s head—even mine! ’Twill not be long now before my suit prospers…. I have won everything from her father but his daughter, and I shall bide my time till I win her. I have made up my mind—I, and not Dulaney, will live ‘Where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall!’”