To tell the truth I was somewhat out of element in that crowded room of jovial roysterers. Though not averse to a kindly quencher after a long walk, I saw neither rhyme nor reason in guzzling mighty draughts of ale just for the sake of "getting forrader," and I'd outgrown my boyish affection for nuts and brandysnap, and swing-boats and dobby-horses made me sick, and fat women, even when bearded, had lost their pristine charm. My thoughts wandered from the scene that my eyes gazed upon but scarcely saw, and I fell to musing idly about my strange acquaintance, the recluse of Deanhead, and I reproached myself for having been beguiled from my first intent to visit him in his hour of lonely sickness. I'd have been glad enough to shake the dust of the Wakes from my feet and hie me over the moors to the lonely cottage, or rather hovel, which was all the poor old hermit had to call a home. But I was under solemn vow to watch over the potations of that good natured giant, Jim, whose hearty voice I could distinguish even in that Babel, calling on all and sundry to come and "sup". I calculated that at his present rate of progression his few shillings would soon be gone, and I made up my mind to slip out presently and expend my little stock in the "fairings" for Mary and one or two of the mill girls and neighbours' children, that I might in all truth assure Jim I was spent up when he came, as come I knew he would, to see if I could replenish his exhausted exchequer. Then we'd have to go home, Jim willy-nilly. Bent on this goodly strategy, I made my way with no little difficulty along the narrow passage that led to the outer door, and stood a space upon the steps, glad to breathe again the air that stole down from Pots and Pans, and tasted all the sweeter after the mingled fumes of twist tobacco and stale ale of the room I had quitted. My slight elevation enabled me to see across and above the throng, and across the square and hard by the stocks I saw a sight that roused me smartly from my somewhat abstracted mood. I saw the two well-known gamekeepers that all the countryside knew as Bill o' Jack's, and Tom o' Bill's, William Bradbury and Tom, his son, men of bad repute, wenchers and ale-bibbers, and never so happy as when they could get some poor devil of a weaver into trouble with his betters for snaring a rabbit or bagging a bird. Tom was a fine upstanding fellow enough, but his father had an evil face, full of malice and guile. It was a common saying that Bill made the bullets and Tom shot them. But I'd no time just then for dwelling on family characteristics. I heard a scream and a voice, a young and sweet, pure voice, that cried, "Let me be, let me be." "Not till I've had a kiss, my bonnie gipsy wench." "Never, never; let me be, I say." "Jim," I cried with all my might and main, "Jim, I want you"; and I was through that crowd, how I never knew.