"Other people are more wise than you. Do go up and ask him, will you, George? I hope he gets good dinners somewhere, for it's very little of anything he cooks at that smoky little fireplace of his. Do you ever see him bring anything in?"
"Nothing. I don't see him bring himself in, you know. But he'll do. He'll have enough by and by, Dame Nettley. I know what stuff he's of."
"Yes, but no stuff'll last without help," said Mrs. Nettley, taking her cakes off the griddle and piling them up carefully. "Now I'm all ready, George, and you're standing there — it's always the way — and before you can mount those three pair of stairs and down again, these'll be cold. Do go, George; Mr. Landholm likes his cakes hot — I'll have another plateful ready before you'll be here; and then they're good for nothing but to throw away."
"That's what I think," said Mr. Inchbald; "but I'll bring him down if I can, to do what you like with 'em — only I must see first what this knocking wants at the front door."
"And left this one open too!" — said Mrs. Nettley, — "and now the whole house'll be full of smoke and everything — Well! — I might as well not ha' put this griddleful on." —
But the door having refused to latch, gave Mrs. Nettley a chance to hear what was going on. She stood, slice in hand, listening. Some unaccustomed tones came to her ear — then Mr. Inchbald's round hearty voice, saying,
"Yes sir — he is here — he is at home."
"I'd like to see him —"
And then the sounds of scraping feet entering the house.
"I'd like to go somewheres that I could see a fire, too," said the strange voice. "Ben ridin' all night, and got to set off again, you see, directly."