Zeb's clothes were disordered, and looked as if he had spent the
night in them; his face was yellow and drawn, with dark semicircles
underneath the eyes; and he put a hand up against the door-post for
support.
"To what do I owe this honour?" asked the stranger, gazing back at him.
Zeb pulled out a great turnip-watch from his fob, and said--
"You'm dressin?"
"Ay, for the wedding."
"Then look sharp. You've got a bare five-an'-twenty minnits."
"Excuse me, I'm not to be married till eleven."
"Iss, iss, but _they_'re comin' at ten, sharp."
"And who in the world may 'they' be?"
"The press-gang."
The stranger sprang up to his feet, and seemed for a moment about to fly
at Zeb's throat.
"You treacherous hound!"
"Stand off," said Zeb wearily, without taking his hand from the
door-post. "I reckon it don't matter what I may be, or may not be, so
long as you'm dressed i' ten minnits."
The other dropped his hands, with a short laugh.
"I beg your pardon. For aught I know you may have nothing to do with
this infernal plot except to warn me against it."
"Don't make any mistake. 'Twas I that set the press-gang upon 'ee,"
answered Zeb, in the same dull tones.
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