After that he also shut the window and went to bed, where he likewise slept soundly till the morning. CHAPTER IV. The "Relton Arms" had the reputation of being the most respectable inn in the little country town of Relton. It had no particular right to this title, being smaller and more shabby than the "Red Lion" down the street, which was a modern innovation run by a speculator from the neighboring market-town, and promised particular advantages to cyclists which they never quite seemed to reap; but it had outlived generations of Reltons up at the old Court, and it bore their family escutcheon on its sign-board, and all the club dinners were held in its oak-panelled parlor; and the frequent presence of the rector on occasions when alcohol was banished from the table had naturally helped it to keep up its reputation. The fallacy was maintained equally strangely by the silence of its landlord, who only grew more taciturn as he grew more intoxicated, while the people who were fond of talking, notably his wife, made capital out of his silence and applauded him for it, so that he too became respectable in the eyes of Relton. And never having been known to contradict any one in his life, respectable he accordingly consented to remain. It was on a sultry, still afternoon towards the end of the summer that Roger Brill, the comely rat-catcher of the town, raised the latch of the "Relton Arms" about tea-time. "Mornin', missus," said he. "And I'm sure it's mornin' to you, Muster Brill, notwithstandin' it's being arternoon by time o'sun, which be a foolish difference to make among old acquaintance; but there, there's a deal too much talkin' about trifles in my thinkin'. And be you ready for a cup of tea, lad, or be it the usual you'll be wantin'?" Without waiting for the reply, which had been the same, like the question, for the last fifteen years, the bustling landlady hastened forward with a chair and sent her obedient husband for the beer. One of the most remarkable phases of a monotonous incident is the way in which some people contrive to give it the appearance of novelty. Mrs. Haxtell belonged to such a class, and it did not in the least disturb her method that her husband had usually filled the pewter pot before she had finished inviting her customer to have it. But old Peter was a man of deeds, not words, and he chose for his part to make the transaction a purely business one, though he allowed his wife to hide it with a veneer of hospitality if she would. And this she generally did in the most feminine and transparent manner possible, until the time for payment came, when she would meekly retire under cover of her sex, and leave her husband to battle with the creditor. "Good sport to-day, lad?" asked Peter presently. "Aye, for sure," answered Roger; and then, glancing professionally at the row of dead rats that hung from his waist, he added slowly, "more ways nor one." "Eh," said Peter, with a slight access of emphasis.