The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates
I
Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour streamed out into the darkness of the November night. Standing in the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam. He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast of bread and cheese on the following morning. A clink of glasses, followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter, for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway and pushed open the door of the little country inn.
He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging lamp. A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes of convivial comfort. They all looked up as he entered.
Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself quietly on an oak settle against the wall. An enormously stout man, who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.
"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble. "Nasty night, ain't it?"
Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.
"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such was evidently the stout gentleman's calling. "You look fair perished."
Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.