"Good marning, sir! Fine marning's marning! Tez mortel 'ot ta-day," he said, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue eyes. I passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon had already claimed all my attention; I had no eyes for anything else at the moment. I dealt hotly with speculations over the ownership of the flagon. Did it belong to the rustic or the innkeeper? Did they know its value? This and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. As I stood there I dwelt avariciously upon thought of possession. I said to myself: "I must have that flagon. I will buy. Beg it. Steal it, if necessary." The desire to possess it consumed my soul.
"Wantee plaize to take a seat? The cider here be a prime sort, I shuree!" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. He spoke very slowly and, as I have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what only honest men do—looked straight at me when he spoke.
"Surely," I said, and sat down beside him. "Pray excuse me," I continued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, "but that is a remarkable old drinking vessel."
"Thickee there is the ownly wan I ever see like it," said he, holding it up and looking at it with admiration. "Yes, sir, it be a brave good mug, and I have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. It's just a fancy of mine to bring it along with me when I drink. I tellee that mug has been with my folk for two hundred years. Parson says it is just a 'miracle' of an old thing."
"Aha!" said I to myself, "the parson is after it too."
"They tell me," he said, "that it may be worth a pound or two. Well, well! It is an old friend, and I should be loath to part with the cheel, but——"
"But," I repeated eagerly.
"But," he continued, "things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and I have thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can sell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the winter."