Two men more at odds in outward appearance could not easily have been found. The gaper was plain country, a big, bulky man, with a paunch that, as he sat, sagged nearly to his knees, a triple chin, and a nose with a knobly end, in shape and colour like an overripe strawberry. His companion was a little fellow, lean and sharp-cut, with a head like a ferret's. We country-siders know your Londoner. Many an hour I had sat under the clump of elms at the lane-end and watched the travellers. Hence, doubtless, my taste in fashionable head-gear, like this of mine, lately belonging to Swift Nicks, now disposed carefully on the table at my side. I would have wagered it against Joe Braggs' frowsy old milking-cap that the little man was a Londoner. Little as he was, his cold, calculating anger overbore his antagonist, who was no great hand at stating his case, good as it was. "The landlord knows me and knows the gelding," said the little man. "You know less about horses than a Mile End tapster. Fetch him in, and let him decide. I suppose you rode him!" "What a God's name, d'ye think I bought him for, Mr. Wicks? To look at?" "By the look of you I should think you bought him as a present for a baby. Sixteen stone six if you're an ounce, and riding a two-year-old! Damme, no wonder he throws out curbs! Fetch the landlord, I tell ye!" Out burst the fat man in a great fury, and in a minute or two came back with the landlord and an ostler. Then the wrangle became hotter and more amusing than ever. Finally, the little man, losing all patience, drew a pistol, whereon the big man ran backwards, shrieking "Murder!" Not heeding where he was going, he tumbled up against my table, and jammed it hard against my midriff. I attempted to rise but was too late. The fat man seized my wrists, the landlord and the ostler ran round, and pinned me to the chair, and the little man held the barrel of the pistol to my forehead. "Good afternoon, Mr. Swift Nicks!" said he. I dare say my liver was turning the colour of chalk, but, though I'm too easily frightened, I'm always too proud to show it, which has unjustly got me the character of being a brave man. "Good afternoon, Mr. Too-swift Wicks!" I retorted. "What d'ye mean?" he asked, plainly disconcerted. "I mean," said I, "that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up." "What the hell does he mean?" he asked, appealing to the company. "Damn my bones if I know," answered the host. "I've 'eerd parson say sommat like it in church a Sundays. He's one of these 'ere silly scholards." "They do say as how Swift Nicks is a scholard," put in the ostler wisely.