’Twas a low building, but somewhat long, and I guess’d it to be, in summer time, a habitation for the woodcutters. But what surpris’d me was to hear a dull, moaning noise, very regular and disquieting, that sounded from the interior of the hut. I listen’d, and hit on the explication. ’Twas the sound of snoring. Drawing nearer with caution, I noticed, in that end of the hut which stood over the stream, a gap, or window hole. The sound issued through this like the whirring of a dozen looms. “He must be an astonishing fellow,” thought I, “that can snore in this fashion. I’ll have a peep before I wake him.” I waded down till I stood under the sill, put both hands upon it, and pulling myself up quiet as a mouse, stuck my face in at the window—and then very nearly sat back into the brook for fright. For I had gazed straight down into the upturn’d faces of Captain Settle and his gang. How long I stood there, with the water rushing past my ankles and my body turning from cold to hot, and back again, I cannot tell you. But ’twas until, hearing no pause in the sleepers’ chorus, I found courage for another peep: and that must have been some time. There were but six rascals beside the Captain (so that Jacques must have died hard, thought I), and such a raffle of arms and legs and swollen up-turn’d faces as they made I defy you to picture. For they were pack’d close as herrings; and the hut was fill’d up with their horses, ready saddled, and rubbing shoulder to loin, so narrow was the room. It needed the open window to give them air: and even so, ’twas not over-fresh inside. I had no mind to stay: but before leaving found myself in the way of playing these villains a pretty trick. To right and left of the window, above their heads, extended two rude shelves that now were heap’d with what I conjectured to be the spoils of the larder of the “Three Cups.” Holding my breath and thrusting my head and shoulders into the room, I ran my hand along and was quickly possess’d of a boil’d ham, two capons, a loaf, the half of a cold pie, and a basket holding three dozen eggs. All these prizes I filched one by one, with infinite caution. I was gently pulling the basket through the window hole, when I heard one of the crew yawn and stretch himself in his sleep. So, determining to risk no more, I quietly pack’d the basket, slung it on my right arm, and with the ham grasp’d by the knuckle in my left, made my way up the stream. ’Twas thus laden that I enter’d the dingle, and came on the sad sight therein. I set down the ham as a thing to be asham’d of, and bar’d my head. The girl lifted her face, and turning, all white and tragical, saw me. “My father is dead, sir.”