INear dusk of the quiet November day a man came into Widow Mathison’s inn at Garsykes and called for a quart of home-brewed.
“Can you pay?” asked the widow, with her buxom, loose-lipped smile.
For answer the man took a handful of silver from his pocket and laid it on the table.
“That’s right enough, and no offence meant. Time was when I chalked the tally up on my door—but I tired o’ that.”
“You would—from all I hear of Garsykes.”
“Oh, they’re free enough with their money when they have any. It’s just that they seldom have.”
The widow, after bustling to serve him, went on with her interrupted dusting of the china dogs on the mantel, till curiosity got the better of her.
“Have you travelled far, like?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Not so very,” chuckled the stranger, “though I came
