The icy landlord thawed again.
"Well, Sir, the fact is, I made that key with my own hands."
"You?" cried Richard, in affected astonishment. "Why, you must be a mechanical genius. Look at the work! look at the wards!" and he scrutinized them admiringly close to the candle. "Do take another glass, Mr. Trevethick."
"Nay, Sir; I've a friend in the parlor waiting for me," rejoined the landlord, dryly. He appeared already to regret having given way to that momentary feeling of self-esteem.
"I wish I had," observed Richard, smiling. "It's lonely work coming down here by one's self, and finding nobody to speak to."
There was a short pause, during which Richard was rapt in admiration of the key.
"Now, if his thick skin prove impervious to flattery," thought he, "then will I fly my last shaft into his very gizzard."
Mr. Trevethick's skin was quite compliment-proof, if an invitation into the bar parlor was to be the evidence of its having been pierced.
"You should come down in the summer-time, Sir," said he, coolly; "then you will find lots of folks to talk with. At present I am afraid you must put up with your own company." And the huge frame of the landlord was already moving toward the door.
"I am afraid so, indeed," said Richard, carelessly. "Parson Whymper ought to have known better than to send me down here at such a time as this."