"I think every free-born man has a right to sit as he pleases in his own house," resumed the traveler, with warmth; "and an inn is his own house, I guess, so long as he pays his score. Betty, my dear!"
For the chamber-maid had now replied to the bell.
"I han't Betty, sir; do you want she?"
"No, Sally—cold brandy-and-water—and a biscuit."
"I han't Sally, either," muttered the chamber-maid; but the traveler, turning round, showed so smart a neckcloth, and so comely a face, that she smiled, colored, and went her way.
The traveler now rose, and flung down the paper. He took out a penknife, and began paring his nails. Suddenly desisting from this elegant occupation, his eye caught sight of the Parson's shovel-hat, which lay on a chair in the corner.
"You're a clergyman, I reckon, sir," said the traveler, with a slight sneer.
Again Mr. Dale bowed—bowed in part deprecatingly—in part with dignity. It was a bow that said, "No offense, sir! but I am a clergyman, and I'm not ashamed of it!"
"Going far?" asked the traveler.
Parson.—"Not very."