I recognised the hepping-stock and granite drinking-trough beside the
porch; as well as the eight front windows, four on either side of the
door, and the dummy window immediately over it. Only the landlord was
unfamiliar. He appeared as the gig drew up--a loose-fleshed, heavy man,
something over six feet in height--and welcomed me with an air of
anxious hospitality, as if I were the first guest he had entertained for
many years.
"You received my letter, then?" I asked.
"Yes, surely. The Rev. S. Wraxall, I suppose. Your bed's aired, sir,
and a fire in the Blue Room, and the cloth laid. My wife didn't like to
risk cooking the fowl till you were really come. 'Railways be that
uncertain,' she said. 'Something may happen to the train and he'll be
done to death and all in pieces.'"
It took me a couple of seconds to discover that these gloomy
anticipations referred not to me but to the fowl.
"But if you can wait half an hour--" he went on.
"Certainly," said I. "In the meanwhile, if you'll show me up to my
bedroom, I'll have a wash and change my clothes, for I've been
travelling since ten this morning."
I was standing in the passage by this time, and examined it in the dusk
while the landlord was fetching a candle.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158