Daddy slowly removed his long clay pipe, and inspected the stranger with a pair of shrewd little grey eyes. He had rosy cheeks, a benevolent, even sweet expression, and looked fifteen years younger than his age. “Ye come fra’ London?” he began agreeably. “Yes, sir, three days ago. It’s a good long journey.” “Ay, mister,” nodding his white head expressively. “Ye don’t belong to _us_. Yer speech--like the Bible chap--bewrayeth ye--y’re no working man!” “I am, indeed,” rejoined Wynyard quickly, “and working for my bread the same as the rest of the company; it’s all I have to look to--my two hands.” “Nay, is that so?” and he glanced at him incredulously. “Well, I’ve bin here a matter o’ twenty year, and I never see one o’ your make a-comin’ in and settin’ in the Drum. There’s ’im,” and he indicated the bent figure in the corner, whose pipe was in his hand, his eyes riveted on the stranger with a look of startled inquiry. “That’s the Captain, but ’e’s no account. ’E comes in and ’e sits and maybe listens; ’e never speaks. They do say ’e ’ad a soort o’ stroke in India, and ’is brain ’as melted like, but ’e is ’armless enough--anyhow, ’is lady won’t put ’im away.” “I suppose you’ve lived here a long time?” said Wynyard, drawing forward a chair, and placing it so as to sit with his back to the said Captain, whose stare was disagreeably steady. “Twenty year, more or less. I am a south country man, and my daughter she married and settled ’ere, and ’er ’usband died; an’ as there was only the two on us, I come along to keep ’er company, and to die ’ere, since I was gettin’ pretty old, being over seventy; but, Lor’ bless ye! that’s twenty-two year ago, and ’ere I be still gettin’ about, and doin’ a bit o’ gardenin’. The air is grand--nothing ails me but gout,” holding out a crippled hand. “This isn’t the place to die in--it’s the place to live in. It keeps ye alive. Why, I’m ninety-three. Oh, it’s what ye may call a terrible lively place.” This was not his listener’s opinion, who would have instituted instead the word “deadly.” “You must have seen a great deal in ninety-three years,” said Wynyard, lighting his pipe. “Lor’ bless ye, yes; and I’ve a wunnerful memory.” “Do you remember the days of Napoleon?” “What--old Bony! Nay,” a little offended, “I’m not as old as _that_; but I do mind a talk o’ ’is funeral in France.” “I beg your pardon, I’m an awful duffer at dates. You remember Wellington?” “Oh ay, ’e was only the other day, so to speak.” “And what else do you remember?” “Well, as a lad, I remember I was terrible afeerd o’ the press gang.” “The press gang?” “Ay; that come pokin’ round after able-bodied men for the Navy, and kidnappin’ ’em away to sea, and keepin’ them there, whether or no, for years, and their families at home starvin’.” “I say, what times!”