“You’re more ready to toe t’ line than I altogether care about,” the other went on. He was still suspicious, and whilst the mastery in the grey eyes fascinated it also irritated him. “I want a job in the country,” Inman said soothingly. “I want to be among men o’ my own breed—among moormen. I’m sick to death of the little painted images of men they have in the towns. They told me in Scaleber you were a just man, Mr. Briggs—not soft, but just—and I’ll trust you to give me what I’m worth—that’s all I meant, however badly I put it.” The master threw a keen glance at him, and seeing nothing but frankness and something not unlike humility in the face and attitude, allowed himself to be appeased. “Well, I’ll try you for an odd week,” he said, “and see what you’re made of. I could like to teach yon lad a lesson. He’ll be back in t’ morning, like enough, with his cap in his hands; but I’ll see him blaze before I’ll stand his jaw. Where’ll you put up for to-night?” “I’ll find a spot somewhere,” Inman replied indifferently. “Will you step in and have a bite o’ bread before you go down t’ village?” Mr. Briggs inquired gruffly, and with no heartiness to season the invitation. “My sister’ll happen know o’ somebody ’at’ll give you a bed.” A light came into the man’s eyes for a second or two, but he quickly curtained it. “No thanks,” he said. “I’ll not trouble you. There’ll be an inn, I reckon. I’ll go down there.” CHAPTER II IN WHICH INMAN RECEIVES A COLD RECEPTION AND SOME INFORMATION A FEEBLE moon lit up the darkness that had fallen rapidly whilst he had been engaged with the master-carpenter, and enabled Inman to find his way without difficulty down the sloping street to the green, where the weather-beaten inn squatted in close proximity to the purling river—a baby stream of mysterious origin, and only a mile or two old, if one may put it so. A few other houses, substantially but plainly built of millstone grit and limestone, and varying from the humble whitewashed cottages of the labouring classes to the more pretentious dwellings of farmers and apartment-providers faced the green on three sides. An hotel of somewhat imposing dimensions stood back a few yards from the main road on the west; but after one brief glance in that direction Inman turned on his heel, and crossing the stream and the upper section of the green entered the low door of “The Packhorse,” and found himself in a well-filled room, where he discerned amidst the smoke the features of the phlegmatic elders who had been silent witnesses of the scene at the carpenter’s.