They looked in.
A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which the most robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen, rough farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript class, which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters, but made their living by conveying huge teams from town to town. They were travelling merchants—not wagoners simply, as might have been supposed from their garments full of straw, and the huge whips which lay beside them on the floor. When they chewed their food, these worthies resembled horses masticating ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the windows rattle.
The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of his companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape the landlord.
As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing their names in the tavern-book. He would have stopped him, but he had already written the names.
He thereupon turned to the landlord.
Could they not have a private room?
Hum!—it was contrary to rule.
They wanted to dine.
Could they not make up their minds to join the company?
The younger traveller could not, and would not—a room.