A shout of welcome greeted him:--"Tom!" "Tom o' the Gleam!" "Come in, Tom!" "Drinks all round!"--and there followed a general hustle and scraping of chairs on the floor,--every one seemed eager to make room for the newcomer. Helmsley, startled in a manner by his appearance, looked at him with involuntary and undisguised admiration. Such a picturesque figure of a man he had seldom or never seen, yet the fellow was clad in the roughest, raggedest homespun, the only striking and curious note of colour about him being a knitted crimson waistcoat, which instead of being buttoned was tied together with two or three tags of green ribbon. He stood for a moment watching the men pushing up against one another in order to give him a seat at the table, and a smile, half-amused, half-ironical, lighted up his sun-browned, handsome face. "Don't put yourselves out, mates!" he said carelessly. "Mind Feathery's toes!--if you tread on his corns there'll be the devil to pay! Hullo, Matt Peke! How are you?" Matt rose and shook hands. "All the better for seein' ye again, Tom," he answered, "Wheer d'ye hail from this very present minit?" "From the caves of Cornwall!" laughed the man. "From picking up drift on the shore and tracking seals to their lair in the hollows of the rocks!" He laughed again, and his great eyes flashed wildly. "All sport, Matt! I live like a gentleman born, keeping or killing at my pleasure!" Here "Feathery" Joltram looked up and dumbly pointed with the stem of his pipe to a chair left vacant near the middle of the table. Tom o' the Gleam, by which name he seemed to be known to every one present, sat down, and in response to the calls of the company, a wiry pot-boy in shirt-sleeves made his appearance with several fresh tankards of ale, it now being past the hour for the attendance of that coy handmaiden of the "Trusty Man," Miss Prue. "Any fresh tales to tell, Tom?" inquired Matt Peke then--"Any more harum-scarum pranks o' yours on the road?" Tom drank off a mug of ale before replying, and took a comprehensive glance around the room. "You have a stranger here," he said suddenly, in his deep, thrilling voice, "One who is not of our breed,--one who is unfamiliar with our ways. Friend or foe?" "Friend!" declared Peke emphatically, while Bill Bush and one or two of the men exchanged significant looks and nudged each other. "Now, Tom, none of yer gypsy tantrums! I knows all yer Romany gibberish, an' I ain't takin' any. Ye've got a good 'art enough, so don't work yer dander up with this 'ere old chap what's a-trampin' it to try and find out all that's left o's fam'ly an' friends 'fore turnin' up 'is toes to the daisies. 'Is name is David, an' 'e's been kickt out o' office work through bein' too old. That's _'is_ ticket!"