“Aye, aye,” said the old man, who was so careful of speech. “In the worst weather he works hardest. I hear it—I hear it—and, friends, mind, I say nothing, but where does his work come from and when is it done, where does it go to—eh?”
“That’s the thing!” cried several. “You’ve hit the right nail on the head.”
“Mind, I said nothing—nothing at all,” cried the old man, resuming his pipe, with a self-satisfied air.
“I’ll say something, though,” cried the young farmer, “my opinion is, that he forges chains fer old Nick, and some day you’ll hear—”
Several heavy blows upon the outer door of the ale house, which was closed to keep out the snow, stopped the young farmer in his speech and attracted the attention of the whole company.
“Who’s that?” said one, looking round him. “We are all here.”
“House! House!” cried a deep hoarse voice, from without, and the blows on the door continued.
“Tom! Tom!” screamed the landlady, Mrs. Fairclaw, who was a buxom widow, fat, fair, and fifty, “Tom! You idle vagabond! Don’t you hear! There’s some one knocking—if it’s a tramper, tell him this is no house for him.”
Tom, with a knowing wink, proceeded to the door, and, in a few moments ushered into the warm parlour a tall man, who was so covered with snow, that it was difficult to make out what rank in life his appearance indicated.
He cast a hurried and uneasy glance round him, as he entered the parlour, and then taking a chair in silence, he turned to Tom, and said in a tremulous voice, “Brandy, if you please.”