"It may be Dutch, for all it matters to us. Now John Bent, just you stir up that fire a bit, and put some coal on. I may have to bring a saucepan in here, for what I know."
"Tush!" said John, doing as he was bid, nevertheless. "A chop and a potato: that's as much as most of these chance travellers want."
"Not when they are from over the water. I don't forget the last foreign Frenchman that put up here. Fifteen dishes he wanted for his dinner, if he wanted one. And all of 'em dabs and messes."
She had gone to carry away her shrimps when the stranger came down. He walked direct into the room, and looked from the open door. The landlord stood up.
"You are Thomas Bent, I think," said the stranger, turning round.
"John Bent, sir. My father was Thomas Bent, and he has been dead many a year."
"And this is your good wife?" he added, as the landlady came bustling in. "Mistress of the inn."
"And master too," muttered John, in an undertone.
"I was about to order dinner, Mr. Bent----"
"Then you'd better order it of me, sir," put in the landlady. "His head's no better than a sieve if it has much to carry. Ask for spinach and cauliflower, and you'd get served up carrots and turnips."