So then I pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to me and took the money. Thus the bargain was struck. So this being settled, and I eager for a drink of ale, called the innkeeper, who was in another room. Beer was brought and my friend insisted on paying for it. I asked him about his wife and children. But I could get very little from him, and that little in a low voice. I felt sorry for him, for I understood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. He seemed as different as one could imagine from the singer I had seen when I entered. He told me that his was a very old family in this place, and his name was Ralph Copplestone. He also quoted the following adage to strengthen his statement:-- "Crocker, Cruwys and Copplestone, When the Conqueror came were all at home." Before he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. He set off down the road, and as he passed he began singing: "Dorset gives us butter and cheese, Devonshire gives us cream, Zummerzet zyder's zure to please And set your hearts a-dream; Cornwall, from her inmost soul, Brings tin for the use of man, And the four of 'em breed the prettiest girls-- So _damme_, beat that if you can!" Finally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. I sat before the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness. The fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour grew dark and grey. He was a strange fellow! It was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was already full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the evening, that I came down Broad Street into Lyme Regis. In passing, I was attracted by a little curiosity shop. The dusty window was full of all sorts of things--red-heeled slippers, old bits of brass, quaint, twisted candlesticks, blue enamel snuffboxes, jewellery--value and rubbish being mixed in confusion together. And there right in the fore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! It was truly an amazing coincidence! I looked into the doorway, and saw the owner of the shop, a very old gentleman. His face was a network of wrinkles, which time so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a sweetness which even youth lacks. I made up my mind to seek information from him about the flagon. He was examining a piece of china with a magnifying-glass when I entered. "Good evening--good evening!" he said, putting down the glass, and looking up at me with a smile. "What can I show you, sir?" The old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly. "The odd black jack in your window," I said boldly. The old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling produced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. As I examined it he watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. It was, indeed, a facsimile of the one I had purchased from the rustic.