In the oiliest of tones he inquired for the landlord. But in this case, it appeared, there was no landlord, for a vixenish little woman, lean as a cricket and as shrill, bounced out with the information that she, Mrs. Timber, was the landlady. Her husband, she snapped out, was dead. To the tramp this hostess appeared less promising than the seductive sign, and he quailed somewhat at the sight of her. However, with a brazen assurance born of habit, he put a bold face on it, peremptorily demanding bread, cheese, and ale. The request for a bed he left in abeyance, for besides the vixenish Mrs. Timber there hovered around a stalwart pot-boy, whose rolled-up sleeves revealed a biceps both admirable and formidable.
"Bread, cheese, and ale," repeated the landlady, with a sharp glance at her guest's clerical dress, "for this. And who may you be, sir?" she asked, with a world of sarcasm expended on the "sir."
"My name is Cicero Gramp. I am a professor of elocution and eloquence."
"Ho! a play-actor?" Mrs. Timber became more disdainful than ever.
"Not at all; I am not on the boards. I recite to the best families. The Bishop of Idlechester has complimented me on my----"
"Here's the bread-and-cheese," interrupted the landlady, "likewise the beer. Sixpence!"
Very reluctantly Mr. Gramp produced his last remaining coin. She dropped it into a capacious pocket, and retired without vouchsafing him another word. Cicero, somewhat discouraged by this reception, congratulated himself that the night was fine for out-of-door slumber. He ensconced himself in a corner with his frugal supper, and listened to the chatter going on around him. It appeared to be concerned with the funeral of a local magnate. Despite the prophecy of the coin, now in Mrs. Timber's pocket, Cicero failed to see how he could extract good fortune out of his present position. However, he listened; some chance word might mean money.
"Ah! 'tis a fine dry airy vault," said a lean man who proved to be a stonemason. "Never built a finer, I didn't, nor my mates neither. An' Muster Marlow'll have it all to 'isself."
"Such a situation!" croaked another. "Bang opposite the Lady Chapel! An' the view from that there vault! I don't know as any corp 'ud require a finer."
"Mr. Marlow'll be lonely by himself," sighed a buxom woman; "there's room for twenty coffins, an' only one in the vault. 'Tain't natural-like."