"Your boy Iver, he's coming with me to the Punch-Bowl," said the Broom-Squire; "but I'll not go for half-an-hour, becos I don't want to overtake that lanky, black-jawed chap as they call Lonegon. He ain't got much love for me, and might try to repay that blow on his wrist, and sprawl on the floor I gave him."
"What is Iver going to the Punch-Bowl for?" asked the landlady, and looked at the boy, her son.
"It's a snipe's feather Bideabout has promised me," answered the lad.
"And what do you want a snipe's feather for at this time o' night?"
"Mother, it's to make a paint brush of. Bideabout ain't at home much by day. I've been over the road scores o' times."
"A paint brush! What do you want paint brushes for? Have you cleaned out the pig-stye lately?"
"Yes, mother, but the pig lies abroad now; it's warm in the stye."
"Well, you may go. Dear life! I wish I could see that blessed babe again, safe and sound. Oh, my!"
The good-hearted woman was destined to have her wish answered more speedily than she could have anticipated.