“Maybe, sir, maybe. It’s not my business, now is it, to put every gentleman as demands a measure of ale through his catechism?” “That seems an odd answer. Did I make any reflections? Scarcely, I think. The law takes means to deal with rogues without consulting the prejudices of landlords.” The visitor looked very ill at ease. Clearly the conversation had taken a turn entirely unexpected by him. “Your honour’s perfectly right,” he said, pressing his damp hands together. “Yet the law gives us no licence to refuse a customer for the reason we don’t like his looks.” Eliciting no response--“I’m a peaceable man,” he went on, with some anguish of protest. “Give me bowl and pipe and a snug ingle-corner, and Fortin may set her cap at me, and die a old maid despite. But ain’t it hard, sir--now ain’t it hard that I’m to be coloured with the reputation of them as takes shelter under my roof and find my character in question for the mere contact?” “You enlarge greatly upon a hint,” said Mr. Tuke. “I understand, then, that you _have_ unwelcome guests to entertain?” Mr. Breeds winced almost imperceptibly; but his eyes took a glint of cunning. “I don’t say that,” said he. “I speak on general premises, as they calls ’em, and on behalf o’ the fraternity. Mr. Brander--_him_ you may a’ seen--is to my knowledge a scholard and an angler; which is not, by your honour’s favour, indictable offences--no, not either of ’em.” “Assuredly. And that other gentleman, with the beetroot face and venerable white hair?” The landlord sucked his lips together, in an absurd affectation of perplexity. “Oh, him!” he cried suddenly and jovially. “That’s Mr. Fern, that is--a traveller, from abroad, come on a tower through the old country.” Then, in the same breath, he went on deprecatingly, with a ludicrous decline of spirit: “It’s all force the favour and take the blame with us, sir. I’m a peaceable soul that loves a pot, and circumstances conspire to upset me.” Mr. Tuke looked at the man keenly. Somehow the latter seemed in travail with that he could not, or would not, give expression to. His hands shook, and beads of leaden perspiration stood on his forehead. By and by he glanced stealthily at the other, and went flaccid to see himself under scrutiny. “Mr. Tuke--your honour,” said he, in a hoarse, vibrative voice, “I weren’t never fitted to be a landlord--that’s the solemn truth. A man as keeps a inn stands balanced between his custom and his conscience; and then comes an extry pot and bowls him off of his legs. Give me your word to compensate me agen the loss, and I’ll shut up the ‘Dog and Duck’ to-morrow and set the place a-fire.” He said it in a tentative, apologetic way, and was quite ready to join in the other’s cackle of merriment over the suggestion. “No, no, my friend,” said Mr. Tuke. “I’ve plenty on my conscience without the guardianship of a scrupulous innkeeper.” Then he added sternly: