(“A mighty worthy fellow,” thought the Squire, while the stranger paused in his talk to dispose of a large mouthful of meat. “He might pass for a shopkeeper or a quill-driver, yet he owns at once to being a servant—though for my part, I don’t see why a gentleman’s valet shouldn’t rank above a rascal clerk or tradesman any day—he certainly sees better society.”)
“I did my small share of fighting,” continued the worthy fellow; “was wounded, sir, which is the reason I’m now going home to London.”
He put back one side of his wig, and disclosed an ear minus a good portion of its rim. Though he gave no further information on the point, and showed no sign of deafness, it was to be assumed that some internal injury had been caused, for it was difficult to see how the mere mutilation of the ear, damaging as it was to the man’s appearance, could be held sufficient reason for his retirement from service.
“Your health, sir,” said the man, raising a pot of ale to his lips.
“Thankye,—thankye, my good man,” said the Squire, approvingly.
“You live in these parts, sir, may I be so bold to ask?” said the good man, with a deferential mildness, having swallowed a great part of the contents of the pot.
“Yes, certainly. Why d’ye ask?”
“Because in that case you might be able, and so condescending, to direct me to a person I’m wishing to pay my respects to,—a gentleman of the name of Foxwell.”
“Foxwell! What do you want of him?”
The abruptness of the Squire’s speech, and the sudden clouding of his brow, would have attracted anybody’s notice, and were not lost on the man whose request had caused them.