I turn to the door to obey _my_ wife, and find myself confronted by a
stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is a tiny, sleepy,
rosy old man, with a vacant pudding-face, and a shining bald head. He
wears drab breeches and gaiters, and a respectable square-tailed ancient
black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the landlord of the inn.
"Good morning, sir," says the rosy old man. "I'm a little hard of hearing.
Was it you that was a-calling just now in the yard?"
Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in a shrill voice,
adapted to our host's hardness of hearing) on knowing who that unfortunate
person is sleeping on the straw. "Where does he come from? Why does he say
such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or single? Did he ever
fall in love with a murderess? What sort of a looking woman was she? Did
she really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole
story!"
Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done--then
delivers himself of his reply as follows:
"His name's Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was
forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story."
My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot, and expresses
itself by a stamp on the stable yard.
The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the horses.
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