She left them and crossed the yard, while John Gore fastened the two horses to a couple of iron brackets in the wall. Mr. Pepys took the lantern down and turned the hay over critically with his boot. Then he went and stood in the doorway, sniffing the night air hungrily, and attempting to decipher his surroundings in the dark.
“I do not stomach this greatly, John. Where the deuce are we? That is what I should like to discover.”
John Gore was unsaddling the horses.
“As queer a place as ever I saw—and queer people in it, too. Listen here, John”—and he came in with an air of mystery—“those voices were never trained in Sussex.”
“Oh!”
“You hear such sweet strains in London City, John. What the deuce has brought such folk down here into Sussex?”
John Gore laid one of the saddles on the ground. Mr. Pepys stooped over it and pulled a pistol from a holster.
“Look to your powder-pans, John; my hair feels stiff under my wig. They would cut our throats for a shilling.”
He smuggled the pistol suddenly under his coat as he heard footsteps crossing the court. The woman came in with a big jug, and bread and cold bacon upon a plate. Mr. Pepys made one more attempt to melt her churlishness.
“Would you be so gracious as to tell us, ma’am, where we happen to be passing the night?”