“Don’t answer me back, you wretch,” cried Mistress Trout. “Don’t do it. And you’d better mend your ways, sir, or I’ll turn you off; and you’ll have a time of it getting another situation, I promise you.”
George dismounted and gave his horse to the hostler.
“I hope,” said he politely to the woman, “that I am not putting you about; but I’d like a snack of something, if I’m not too late.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mistress Trout, “traffic hereabouts is not so great that we have all the victuals bespoke.” Then turning to the hostler, who was yawning behind his hand, she cried sharply: “Well, and are you going to see to the gentleman’s horse, blockhead? Or do you mean to fall asleep as you stand?”
“A man must have sleep some time,” growled Job, as he took the nag by the bridle. “If I’m kept up at night, mistress, by people that go and come at all hours, it’s little to be wondered at if I try to catch a wink or two by daylight.”
The landlady of the “Wheat Sheaf” gave him a look full of anger.
“That will do,” said she. “You have said quite enough. Now, be off and attend to your work.”
Grumbling, the man led the horse toward the barn; and George followed Mistress Trout into the inn. The public room into which he was shown was huge and square and furnished with heavy tables, settles and high-backed chairs. There was a brick fireplace at one side; the evening was a crisp one with a breeze that rattled the many window frames, and in consequence a heap of billets crackled on the fire-dogs.
“You have it snug enough here,” observed George with satisfaction, as he hung his hat upon a peg and began to remove his gloves. “Facing the spring wind makes a small fire seem a most comfortable thing, indeed.”
“And a pretty penny it runs into for cut wood,” objected the landlady. “But what is a tavern-keeper to do when people come in and hector and bully?”