"Somethin' you'll be right glad to hear," continued the other, dallying with the subject, as if loth to part with so choice a morsel.
"Well, I'm waiting to hear it," yawning, to call attention to the late hour.
"I'm chilled through an' through," muttered the visitor, apparently unmindful of the Squire's impatience, and giving a shiver, partly genuine, partly affected, as he glanced up at the motley collection of bottles on the chimney shelf. "Don't you keep anything warmin'?" he added, turning to the host.
"Do you want a dram?"
The guest chuckled audibly at the Squire's powers of divination, and with eager eyes followed the portly figure to a small press in the side of the chimney. The host brought forth a bottle and glass, which he placed on the candle stand, and, without further invitation, the guest quickly caught up the bottle and poured the amber liquor into the glass, filling it to the brim. He emptied it at a gulp, then slowly refilled the glass and reluctantly handed back the bottle to the Squire, who reached out impatiently for it.
"That warms me up powerful," said the visitor, draining the glass with evident enjoyment, eyeing the bottle longingly as he spoke, though the Squire did not again offer it. "I felt like an ice house just now."
"Let's do business," the host suggested.
"Well, he's j'ined the night riders."
"When?"
"The night they burned the Cross Roads gate."