But they seemed to be pot companions of the blacksmith, with whom they were in earnest conversation. Such was the party among whom the young officer found himself seated. To all their questions he was mute, or gave a short, evasive answer. A few moments had elapsed when he received from the landlord a tumbler of hot rum and water, which he had ordered on entering. To this he joined a few slices of old English beef, with a round or two of the landlady’s home-made bread. Feeling himself more comfortable, both as to his inward and outward man, he was disposed to enter into conversation, which he had hitherto avoided. “May I ask you,” said the landlady, observing him listening to the quaint jokes of the sexton, who was the oracle of the parish, “may I ask you—mean no offence, your honour—what brought you out here in this hurricane?” “Why, my good woman,” replied the young officer, “I will not be deceitful enough to say that I came out on purpose to see you. I went, you must know, to see some friends, but, returning to my uncle’s home, the darkness of the night made me lose my way, and here I am, but where I know not.” “Among friends, I hope,” cried the sexton, offering him at the same time a drink from the tankard. He was in the act of putting it to his lips, when the young officer’s servant entered by the back-door with his horse-cloth strapped over his head. “Well, Tim,” said his master, “I suppose you are in want of something to warm you? What will you take?” “You are very kind, Master Ned; I’ll take whisky—what you know I always takes when I be cold.” He flung the horse-cloth aside, and discovered to the inmates his grinning countenance, which he had blackened. “Lawd-a’-mercy ’pon us!” exclaimed the landlady, “is that your servant, sir?—mean no offence, your honour, only he’s rather ugly; he may be a good servant for all that, though,” said she. “Yes; and a faithful one, too,” replied Ned, his master, laughing and telling a fib. “I brought him over from the West Indies with me about five years ago, and he has never left me since, not even in the midst of danger.” “I believe you,” vociferated the murky blacksmith; “black persons are generally faithful.” Ned Warbeck could not repress a smile, and ordered in some refreshment for Tim, who, without any ceremony, seated himself on a three-legged stool by the side of Ned, his master, the others willingly making room for him. His ivory grinders were soon at work, and the whisky flask in a short time was emptied of its contents. He had scarcely ended when Ned, feeling weary, requested the landlord to show him to a place of rest for the night.