“I’m not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.”
“What, then, are you afraid of?”
“The evil one?”
“The evil one?” said the girl: “where is he?”
“Coming upon me.”
“Never heed,” said the girl: “I’ll stand by you.”
CHAPTER VI.—A FOAMING DRAUGHT—THE MAGIC OF ALE.
The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices.
I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried, “Want anything, young fellow?”
“Bring me a jug of ale,” said I; “if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head.”