The man was of the common sort of ale-house
keeper, ugly, beery, and stupid, and old enough to be the father of his
wife, as I call her on account of the wedding ring on her finger. She was,
for the place and post, a complete surprise, being a jaunty, townish,
garish woman, dressed in decayed finery. He would have slit my throat for
a groat, she for a grudge. They looked that sort.
The woman went into another room, beyond the little bar where the
drinkables were stored, to get the spices for the mulling, and the man
shuffled grumpily after her. Hanging on the wall behind the bar was a
fly-sheet, the very same I had read in the "Swan with Two Necks" at
Ashbourne.
"Swift Nicks" was a much-wanted gentleman, and evidently a tobie-man with
a wide range of activities. Out of mere vacancy of mind I walked near to
read the fly-sheet again, and, by a curious chance, among the drone of
words from the other room, the only one my quick ear could pick out
distinctly was "Nicks."
This made me wary, and when the woman came out and busied herself at the
fire, and called me to see what a prime mull she was brewing, I stood over
her, to all intent watching the process but ready for anything.
Pages:
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338