* * * * * It had just struck eleven by the parish clock when the inmates of an inn in a small town in the south of England were disturbed by a sudden clattering of hoofs on the pavement, and presently after by a loud knocking at the door. “Who in the world can that be?” cried the sexton, aroused from a comfortable nap, “the devil a bit would I open the door at this time of night; for it must be the Old One himself, or Death-wing, chief of the Skeleton Crew, to weather such a storm. Why, the rain falls fast enough to drown a horse, and the wind would blow a millstone to London. I say,” addressing himself to the landlord, “don’t you open that door upon no account! We might——” Here he was interrupted by another forcible appeal to the knocker, which made the glasses and cans rattle on the table. The sexton, rubbing his eyes, shook with fear, while the host hobbled to the door as fast as his extreme corpulency would allow him. “Who’s there?” cried he, with a voice which would not have disgraced a sentinel giving the challenge. “Who’s there, and what’s your business?” “A shelter for the night,” was the answer from without. “That’s impossible; all my beds are taken, and my house is full.” “A corner in your hay-loft, or in the stable, will be enough. Open the door, for goodness’ sake, and you shall be rewarded for your trouble.” At the word “reward” the landlord unfastened the bolts of the doors and cast a keen glance on his nightly visitor. “A wet night, this,” said he, opening the door wide. “Ah, so it be, master,” answered a third person, whom the landlord had not yet discovered. “You are not alone, sir traveller, it seems,” said the landlord. “It is only my servant,” replied the young gentleman, entering, and shaking a broad-brimmed hat, dripping with wet. At the same time he bade his servant lead the horse to an adjoining shed, the landlord’s stable being fully occupied. It was none other than Wildfire Ned and Tim, on their way to London. He then unclasped his cloak, which he threw upon a bench. He was dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the navy. The sexton, relaxing from his former harshness, invited the young officer to approach the fire, around which were seated five or six persons, whose uninteresting appearance requires but a few words. The most conspicuous amongst the group was the landlady, a short, fat, buxom dame on the wrong side of forty, who might have been considered considerably handsome but for a small pair of twinkling eyes, disproportionate to the rest of her features. At her right was seated the sexton. A jolly, stout fellow, whose fiery face attested his devotedness to old Plymouth rum or nut-brown ale. Next came the blacksmith of the parish, whose black leathern apron, spread over his knees, served as a screen for the landlady. Not much could be seen of the others, who were seated in the background.