"I reckon he is. He never knowed nothing after the third arrow. Them Wyandottes done it."
A tap-boy hurried out with the brimming pewter, and the shadowy rider emptied it at a gulp.
"'Nother, Jim," he said, stolidly.
"There's blood onto your jaw," said Rolfe, gloomily.
"Ay, they drew blood. I lost my hat"—here he swore fiercely—"and it ain't even paid for, Jim!"
"You orter be glad you got through, Ben Prince," said Rolfe, grimly.
"I am—drat that boy! where's my beer? Oh, there you are, are you? Gimme the pot and quit gaping. Hain't you never seed a express before?"
An admiring circle of hostlers and kitchen wenches laughed hysterically. The post-rider swaggered in his saddle and stretched out his feet contentedly.
"Life ain't all skittles," he observed; "but beer is beer the round world round!" and he drained the pot and tossed it dripping to an honoured scullion.
"News o' Boston?" asked Rolfe, meaningly.