“Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“More?” exclaimed this latest guest, ironically. “Well, better late than never! See that my servant has help with the trunks.”
“Very well, sir; I’ll have Sandy look after them. You are going to stay then?” Shifting several bottles on the bar with apparent industry.
“How can I tell?” returned the newcomer lightly. “Fate is a Sphynx, and I am not Œdipus to answer her questions!”
The landlord looked startled, paused in his feigned employment, but slowly recovering himself, began to dust a jar of peppermint candy.
“How far is it to Meadtown?” continued the guest.
“Forty odd miles! Perhaps you are seeking the old patroon manor there? They say the heir is expected any day”––gazing fixedly at the young man––“at least, the anti-renters have received information he is coming and are preparing––”
The sprightly guest threw up his hands.
“The trunks! the trunks!” he exclaimed in accents of despair. “Look at the disorder of my attire! The pride of these ruffles leveled by the dew; my wristbands in disarray; the odor of the road pervading my person! The trunks, I pray you!”