"No," replied Uncle Anthony, "I have promised to be twelve miles away by to-night, so I mus' be goin'."
"Tich yer 'arp afore you go, Uncle," pleaded the innkeeper.
"I sha'ant, I tell 'ee," replied Anthony.
A number of coins were thrown to the droll, and then shouldering his harp he left the inn.
"'Ee's a cure es Uncle Anthony," said the innkeeper, turning to me; "'ee es for sure, sur."
"Who is he?" I asked. "He does not seem like a common droll."
"He ed'n for sure, sur. I've 'eerd that Uncle do come of a rich family, but law, you ca'ant git nothin' from un. Everybody es glad to zee un. He's a clain off zinger, and can play butiful, 'ee can. Which way ded you cum then, sur, makin' sa bould."
"From southward," I replied.
"Far, sur?"
"From Truro."