“Oh, by the way, Birney, you may bring out some of that hot stuff to my coachman. Poor devil! it will do him no harm after he has been perched up there so long in the rain. But hark ye, Birney! don’t let it be too stiff; I don’t want the fellow to see more mists before his eyes than the night and the storm make,” said Mr. Alick as he got into the carriage.
Old Andy toddled back to his house, and after a few minutes reappeared at the carriage with a mug of the same restorative for the man as he had lately administered to the master.
The chilled and wearied coachman turned it down his throat almost at a gulp, returned the mug, and thanked the donor.
Then he gathered up his reins, cracked his whip, and started his horses at as brisk a trot as might be deemed safe on that dark night over that rough road.
The old turnpike-keeper hurried out of the storm into the shelter of his own cottage.
“Hech! it’s an awfu’ night! I’m glad he’s come and gone. We may pit up the shutters now, gudewife; we’ll no be troubled wi’ ony more travellers the night,” said old Andy, as he shook his shawl free from the clinging rain drops, and hung it up in its place.
“Now sit ye down in your own comfortable chair, gudeman, and I’ll brew ye a bowl o’ hot punch. Eh, hinney, ye’ll be needing it after sic’ an exposure to the elements,” said Jenny, as she replaced the kettle over the blaze, and drew Andy’s old arm-chair before the fire.
With a sigh of infinite relief, he let himself sink into the inviting seat, kicked off his heavy shoes, and stretched his stockinged feet to the genial warmth of the hearth. Andy did not rejoice in the luxury of a pair of slippers.
“Eh, Jenny, woman, it’s good to feel oneself at ease at one’s own fireside at last,” said the old man, as he took from the hand of his wife a smoking tumbler of punch.
“‘It’s hot as love,’ as you say,” she nodded.