“Why, that’s a question,” said the other, frankly nonplussed.
“You ought to know the answer,” said Everell. “Surely you are able to go and come without witnesses, when upon such amusements as brought you out this evening.”
“Be sure I don’t live at the village ale-house, master. Nor at any village, neither; nor in sight of one.”
“Where, then, do you live?”
“I have my cottage, and my patch o’ ground that I contrive to coax a livin’ out of—with a little assistance from outside.” He scarce consciously laid his palm against the fat pocket. “’Tis a poor place, sir, but has the recommendation of privacy. ’Tis so lost in the woods, so to speak, and closed round by hillocks and thickets, I doubt you could ever find it if I told you the way.”
“Who lives with you?”
“Nobody at present, since my last son was took by the press-gang—he was in Newcastle to visit his brother, who’s a porter there. They would go out to see the world, them lads!”
“Then you have room for a lodger,” said Everell, tentatively.
“Fine lodgings for a gentleman like you, sir!”
“Never mind; I’ve had worse,” Everell replied, thinking of Scotland; “and not so long since, either.”