"I don't sell the last named," curtly replied Jenkins, who was by no means favorably impressed with his customer.
"But you will let me have a little, eh, my good friend? Here is some," tapping his breast pocket, "but the sea air has quite destroyed its flavor."
"You have lately crossed then?" asked Jenkins, who was always on the alert for news, and scented a present opportunity.
"But this day I arrived from England on the packet-boat 'Bristol'," replied the stranger, "and right glad was I to put foot on solid ground. Thank you, my friend," he added, as Jenkins placed before him a tankard of ale and a twist of tobacco. "And now may I make bold to ask a little information of you?"
"Depends on what it is," growled Jenkins, his suspicions suddenly awakened.
"It is nothing harmful, sir; quite the contrary. Does not my face inspire confidence? Then you shall have my name. It is Noah Waxpenny, and I have the honor to be confidential clerk to the firm of Sharswood & Feeman, solicitors, Lincoln Inn, London."
"It's no odds if you were the king himself," imprudently replied Jenkins.
"Ha, very clever! A neat joke," laughed Mr. Waxpenny. "God save King George, and all his loyal subjects!"
"Amen to that!" muttered the landlord, aloud. "And God forgive the lie," he added to himself.
Mr. Noah Waxpenny chuckled, and half emptied the pewter at a draught. Then he leaned toward Jenkins in a confidential manner, and his next words were of so startling a nature that Nathan very nearly toppled against the door that separated him from the tap-room.