A man came slowly over the old stone bridge, and averting
his gaze from the dark river with its silent craft,
looked with some satisfaction toward the feeble lights
of the small town on the other side. He walked
with the painful, forced step of one who has already
trudged far. His worsted hose, where they were
not darned, were in holes, and his coat and knee-breeches
were rusty with much wear, but he straightened himself
as he reached the end of the bridge and stepped out
bravely to the taverns which stood in a row facing
the quay.
He passed the “Queen Anne”—a
mere beershop—without pausing, and after
a glance apiece at the “Royal George”
and the “Trusty Anchor,” kept on his way
to where the “Golden Key” hung out a gilded
emblem. It was the best house in Riverstone,
and patronized by the gentry, but he adjusted his
faded coat, and with a swaggering air entered and walked
boldly into the coffee-room.
The room was empty, but a bright fire afforded a pleasant
change to the chill October air outside. He
drew up a chair, and placing his feet on the fender,
exposed his tattered soles to the blaze, as a waiter
who had just seen him enter the room came and stood
aggressively inside the door.
“Brandy and water,” said the stranger;
“hot.”
“The coffee-room is for gentlemen staying in
the house,” said the waiter.
The stranger took his feet from the fender, and rising
slowly, walked toward him. He was a short man
and thin, but there was something so menacing in his
attitude, and something so fearsome in his stony brown
eyes, that the other, despite his disgust for ill-dressed
people, moved back uneasily.
“Brandy and water, hot,” repeated the
stranger; “and plenty of it. D’ye
hear?”
The man turned slowly to depart.
“Stop!” said the other, imperiously.
“What’s the name of the landlord here?”
“Mullet,” said the fellow, sulkily.
“Send him to me,” said the other, resuming
his seat; “and hark you, my friend, more civility,
or ’twill be the worse for you.”
He stirred the log on the fire with his foot until
a shower of sparks whirled up the chimney. The
door opened, and the landlord, with the waiter behind
him, entered the room, but he still gazed placidly
at the glowing embers.
“What do you want?” demanded the landlord,
in a deep voice.
The stranger turned a little weazened yellow face
and grinned at him familiarly.
“Send that fat rascal of yours away,”
he said, slowly.
The landlord started at his voice and eyed him closely;
then he signed to the man to withdraw, and closing
the door behind him, stood silently watching his visitor.
“You didn’t expect to see me, Rogers,”
said the latter.
“My name’s Mullet,” said the other,
sternly. “What do you want?”
“Oh, Mullet?” said the other, in surprise.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,
then. I thought you were my old shipmate, Captain
Rogers. It’s a foolish mistake of mine,
as I’ve no doubt Rogers was hanged years ago.
You never had a brother named Rogers, did you?”
