And striding across a dry ditch which formed a kind of entrenchment between the field and the road, Peke guided his companion round a dark corner and brought him in front of a long low building, heavily timbered, with queer little lop-sided gable windows set in the slanting, red-tiled roof. A sign-board swung over the door and a small lamp fixed beneath it showed that it bore the crudely painted portrait of a gentleman in an apron, spreading out both hands palms upwards as one who has nothing to conceal,--the ideal likeness of the "Trusty Man" himself. The door itself stood open, and the sound of male voices evinced the presence of customers within. Peke entered without ceremony, beckoning Helmsley to follow him, and made straight for the bar, where a tall woman with remarkably square shoulders stood severely upright, knitting. "'Evenin', Miss Tranter!" said Peke, pulling off his tattered cap. "Any room for poor lodgers?" Miss Tranter glanced at him, and then at his companion. "That depends on the lodgers," she answered curtly. "That's right! That's quite right, Miss!" said Peke with propitiatory deference. "You 'se allus right whatsoever ye does an' sez! But yer knows _me_,--yer knows Matt Peke, don't yer?" Miss Tranter smiled sourly, and her knitting needles glittered like crossed knives as she finished a particular row of stitches on which she was engaged before condescending to reply. Then she said:-- "Yes, I know _you_ right enough, but I don't know your company. I'm not taking up strangers." "Lord love ye! This aint a stranger!" exclaimed Peke. "This 'ere's old David, a friend o' mine as is out o' work through gittin' more years on 'is back than the British Gov'ment allows, an' 'e's trampin' it to see 'is relations afore 'e gits put to bed wi' a shovel. 'E's as 'armless as they makes 'em, an' I've told 'im as 'ow ye' don't take in nowt but 'spectable folk. Doant 'ee turn out an old gaffer like 'e be, fagged an' footsore, to sleep in open--doant 'ee now, there's a good soul!" Miss Tranter went on knitting rapidly. Presently she turned her piercing gimlet grey eyes on Helmsley. "Where do you come from, man?" she demanded. Helmsley lifted his hat with the gentle courtesy habitual to him. "From Bristol, ma'am." "Tramping it?" "Yes." "Where are you going?" "To Cornwall." "That's a long way and a hard road," commented Miss Tranter; "You'll never get there!" Helmsley gave a slight deprecatory gesture, but said nothing. Miss Tranter eyed him more keenly. "Are you hungry?" He smiled. "Not very!" "That means you're half-starved without knowing it," she said decisively. "Go in yonder," and she pointed with one of her knitting needles to the room beyond the bar whence the hum of male voices proceeded. "I'll send you some hot soup with plenty of stewed meat and bread in it. An old man like you wants more than the road food. Take him in, Peke!"