“Naw, maister, t’ Whoit Coo hev naw much demand fo’ ’m. T’ gentry do most come and go in their own, and send t’ same for or call t’ friends in visiting,” the man replied, in a tone of apology.
“Very well. Have the cart at the door as soon as it can be brought here, and bring me my bill.”
“Yes, maister.”
They all got up from the table.
“Papa,” said Wynnette, who was too well inclined to take the initiative in most matters, “papa, I think if we can get our business done at the manor to-day, we had better come back here to take supper and to sleep. It seems to me that it would be much nicer than to stop at Angleton.”
“Wait until you see Angleton before you decide, my dear. You may find the ‘Anglesea Arms’ as attractive as this inn,” replied the squire, who was drawing on his railway duster—a needless operation, since there was no more dust on the moor than could have been found on the sea.
“‘The Anglesea Arms,’ papa? No, thank you. The name is enough for me. I would rather sit in the old cart all day and eat bread and cheese, and sleep in the cart all night, gypsy fashion, than take rest or refreshment at the Anglesea Arms,” exclaimed Wynnette.
“But, my dear, you are unjust. The inn has nothing to do with the man, beyond the accident of having been on the land of his ancestors centuries ago, and handed down the name from generation to generation.”
“Can’t help it, papa! I should feel—disgraced—there if I were to find myself by any accident under the roof of the—Anglesea Arms.”
“Whe-ew-ew! Poor, old inn,” whistled Mr. Force.