"Atchew! There, 'tis done, and writ fair." He flung his pen on the table. "And I'd fain know what the squire has against the knave; 'tis more than pique, I promise you. Where's Simmons, confound him!"
He sanded the wet paper, folded it, sealed it with yellow wax, and wrote the superscription:
For Nicolas Barkley Esqre
at his house
Winton St. Mary
nr Salisbury, England
This done, he tugged again at the bell-pull, blew his nose with sounding ferocity, and stuck his legs into the hearth with the air of a man who had successfully achieved a stupendous task.
The door opened, and John Simmons entered.
"Hang you, sirrah! why don't you answer my bell at the very moment, sir? Go get me a bottle of rum."
Simmons, pallid, frowsy, scared-looking, stood hesitating in the doorway.