“I have no money to lose to you, my young sir,” he made reply, ungraciously. “I am but a simple farmer, and I play with none but my own kind. I do not know the rules by which such as you handle the cards!” “Then join us in a glass of Medford rum--such as you Vermonters know so well how to appreciate--’tis cold outside and the landlord will mull us a bowl. Come, I say!” He clapped the farmer hospitably on the shoulder in friendly fashion, and led the way into the tavern. A kind bar-maid came out and threw a fur square over Morgan’s shivering back and give him a warm mash, which comforted him greatly. He acknowledged her friendliness, by nipping her sleeve gently with his lip; and as she was fond of horses, this pleased her, and she further brought him joy by patting his face gently and murmuring little love-talk in his ears. Many hours later the side door opened and the Coxcomb came out. He was talking to himself as he closed the door behind him, blotting out the sudden radiance from the great, roaring fire inside the tavern. He did not notice Morgan, though he almost touched him in the darkness as he paced to and fro. “Egad!” he cried, under his breath; “the fellow had money--but he has it not. Let him go back where he belongs, to his land of hemlock and frost-bitten, half-civilized race…. Yet,” and he almost sighed--not quite, “even _I_ awakened to a slight feeling of compunction when he turned out the toe of a woman’s stocking and confessed it was his last shilling--money, he remembered too late, his wife had given him to buy a calico gown…. Ha! Calico, at the trifle of three shillings the yard! Mistress Lloyd”--here Morgan pricked his ears back and forth--“Mistress Lloyd wears silks and satins, and her laces are like cobwebs…. Oddsbodikins! _There_ is a maid to turn a man’s head--even mine! ’Twill not be long now before my suit prospers…. I have won everything from her father but his daughter, and I shall bide my time till I win her. I have made up my mind--I, and not Dulaney, will live ‘Where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall!’” Almost under Morgan’s nose he drew from his satin waistcoat-pocket a snuff-box wrought in gold by a master craftsman. With the tips of his delicate fingers he daintily pinched a few grains of the evil-smelling powder and placed it to his nostrils. Morgan sneezed. The Coxcomb stepped hurriedly aside with a prodigious oath as the door of the Inn swung open. Robert Evans stalked out into the night, his cap pulled over his ears, his fur cape wrapped tight about his shoulders. The Coxcomb greeted him with a condescending smile and extended his snuff-box. The giant waved it aside with a gesture of dignity and scorn. “No, sir,” he said, shortly; “if the good Lord had intended my nose for a dirt-box, he would have put it on upside down!” Master Knickerbocker laughed, though Evans had not intended to be funny. “Egad! A very good sally!” he drawled. “Yet I but tried to show my friendliness.”