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In a very few minutes, for the innkeeper could move quickly when he chose, the bottle was broached and the conversation in full career. ‘I’ll wager you could tell a good story, had you a mind to,’ said the stranger, waxing civil. ‘Tis very evident that you’re no ordinary man. You’re a man that’s seen better fortunes, or I’m no judge of men. I’m eager to hear how you came to your present station, from what, I make no doubt, was a position of no little elegance and refinement.’ The gratified landlord was as eager to tell as his guest to hear; but the story, despite this common hunger for it, was subjected to a series of small delays. For first, it seemed, the stranger must be told something of the neighbourhood to which his travels had mysteriously brought him. Which was the nearest big town? Was Dyking Common accounted safe for a gentleman to cross on horseback? This Mr Root, the Glatting magistrate, was he a man of substance and spirit who could be relied upon to do his duty? Was Mr Marden of the Fee a brisk fellow? And, finally, since the lady was nervous of her safety, the gentleman her brother wished to be assured that she need have no anxiety while under this roof. ‘I hope you have honest servants about you, landlord, and can handle a pistol with credit. For myself, I carry no firearms. Foolish perhaps. Reckless, my friends tell me. But that’s my way,’ said he jauntily. ‘And, to be plain with you, I have something in my custody at this moment that would be worth a man’s risking his neck for.’

Mr Bailey stared his admiration. ‘Indeed, sir, but you had best be careful in such parts as these, I can answer for my own household, and this is an honest godfearing village enough, this Marden Fee. But twas no great distance from here, not above twenty mile, that yon terrifying fellow Jim Dander was at his villainous work.’

‘Say no more, my friend,’ said the stranger, ‘or you’ll send my poor sister into ten thousand vapours. Come, fill up, fill up. And then for your story.’

Mr Bailey willingly complied. ‘You hit the mark, sir,’ said he, ‘when you hint that I have seen better fortunes than could be guessed from my present circumstances. Eheu fugaces labuntur anni. Though in sooth I was my own enemy and proved so. My father was a gentleman and a man of substance. He designed to make a parson of me, but for this reason and for that I found myself at eighteen years of age acting as usher in a school for the sons of gentlemen. I was a young man of sufficient parts to entertain without impropriety the ambition of becoming headmaster; and I am persuaded that such would indeed have been my destiny had not the ardour of my temperament led me to commit an indiscretion which my respect for your lady sister forbids that I should more particularly describe. Thank you, sir. The merest sip. Your very good health, madam. Ah, the follies of youth, how small they seem in retrospect, how easily forgiven! But my father took a stern view of this misdemeanour . . .’

The gentleman was on his feet. ‘That was a shame, friend, so it was. We’re vastly obliged to you, pon my soul we are. And now shew us our beds and we’ll wish you good night. Ha ha, took a stern view, did he? As good a tale as I’ve heard these three months. It shall go the round of the coffee-houses, I promise you.’

Returning to the public parlour after shewing his guests to their rooms, Mr Bailey, sobered and a little sorry for himself, found Coachy Timms sitting where he had left him.

‘Rouse up, old gentleman.’

‘Eh?’ Coachy was awake.

‘Time to go, friend. Come, you’re in a sad way if you need telling that. Tis time to go, I say.’

Coachy nodded. ‘Tis a winter-proud night, my coney. I’d as lief stay where I be.’

‘And so you could and welcome, friend. But I’ve not a bed left spare in the house. And the wife would take it amiss if she found you here in the morning. Come, rouse up.’

Without a word Coachy got out of his chair and began moving towards the street door. He opened it and the sky entered to meet him. He stared out at the scintillation. ‘Ay, tis a rare brimmer tonight. Frost and stars a-plenty, and print-moonlight. Could a man light his innards with that glory, he’d have owdacious fine dreams to his bed.’

His foot was across the threshold when Mr Bailey called him back with a loud whisper.

‘Eh?’ said Coachy. ‘What’s afoot now?’

‘If you had a sister, Coachy Timms,’ said Mr Bailey, ‘would you call her your dear love?’

‘Eh?’ said Coachy. ‘Say ut once more, my coney.’

Mr Bailey said it again. ‘And yet,’ he added, half to himself, ‘they act like sister and brother, whatever their speech. For they have each a room to sleep in, as proper and nice as you please.’