The fire soon blazed up. Entering the caravan in his turn, Tim brought out a tin kettle full of water, and placed it on the fire, preparatory to making tea. He was thus engaged when the sound of horse’s hoofs was heard along the highway, and presently the figure of a horseman appeared, approaching at a rapid trot. As it came near to the group in the wayside, the horse shied violently, springing from one side of the road to the other, so that its rider, a dark, middle-aged man in an old-fashioned cloak, was almost thrown from the saddle. Uttering a fierce oath, he recovered himself, and, reining in the frightened animal, looked angrily round; then, seeing the cause of the mischance, he forced his horse with no small difficulty to approach the figures by the fire.
“Who are you?” he demanded, in harsh, peremptory tones. “What are you doing here?”
The young man, pipe in mouth, looked up at him with a smile, but made no reply.
“What are you? Vagrants? Do you know this place is private?”
And he pointed with his riding-whip to a printed “Notice!” fixed close to the gate upon the stem of a large fir tree.
“I beg your pardon,” said the young man, with the utmost sang froid; “we are, I imagine, on the Queen’s highway, and there, with your permission, we purpose to remain for the night.”
Struck by the superior manner of the speaker, the new-comer looked at him in some surprise, but with no abatement of his haughty manner. He then glanced at Tim, who was busy with the kettle, from Tim to the grey mare, and from the grey mare to the house on wheels. The scowl on his dark face deepened, and he turned his fierce eyes again on the young man.
“Let me warn you that these grounds are private. I suffer no wandering vagabonds to pass that gate.”
“May I ask your name?” said the young man in the same cool tones, and with the same quiet smile.
“What is my name to you?”