In an old wainscoted room on the first floor, there was a bright and cheerful-looking fire, and such scanty articles of furniture as were absolutely requisite for the personal accommodation of three or four persons.
A table, on which were several plates, mugs, bottles, and other evidences of some recent meal, stood close by the fire.
Bill, the proprietor of all this display of dirt and dinginess, took up the poker from the fire-side, and beat it heavily against the floor, observing at the same time—
“It’s a d—d sight better than a bell is a poker—the wire never breaks.”
“You speak like a oracle, Bill,” remarked the other man, throwing himself into a seat, and giving Jacob Gray a pull towards him to undo the rope that was still round his middle.
“What will you both drink?” cried Bill; “I have something of everything here, I do believe.”
“Brandy for me,” cried the other man.
“I should prefer wine,” said Gray, “if you have some on hand.”
“I believe you—I have,” rejoined the host. “As fine a drop of wine as ever you tasted in your life, on my honour.”
The door now opened, and an old wrinkled hag appeared, who, in not very courteous terms, demanded,—