The house was kept by a very respectable man, called Anthony Robson, and Tad had often heard his father speak of Tony Rob (as he called him) in high terms as a thoroughly good fellow.
"Please can I have a bit of supper and a corner to lie down in?" asked Tad, timidly addressing the landlord, whose burly form was resting in a big armchair in the chimney corner.
Apparently he was having a little rest and a last pipe before locking up his house for the night and going to bed.
Tony Robson stared at the lad for what seemed to Tad an age before he replied. Then as he saw him cringe a little before the questioning gaze fixed upon him, he said:
"Ain't you rather a whipper-snapper to be goin' journeyin' by yourself at this time of night, and Sunday too? What's your name?"
Tad hesitated, with downcast eyes. If he gave his real name, the landlord might prevent his going any further; for he knew James Poole, and would guess that the boy was going away from his home without leave.
"No," thought Tad, "I must give another name."
Then as Tony, with his face growing a little stern and suspicious, again asked the question, the boy replied with the first name he could think of—Hal Barnes—this being the name of one of his former school-fellows who was now a farmer's boy living some miles from Ponderton.
"And where may you be goin', Hal Barnes?" asked Tony.
The second lie is always easier than the first, and to this question Tad replied glibly enough: