tcome of her plans.

He disappeared through the trees.

"Heigh-ho!" she said, with a light-hearted step. "Now, Moll, we'll get
our first sight of the enemy."

She darted into the house, dragging poor Moll after her.

CHAPTER VIII

_"And the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_

An old English inn! What spot on earth is more hospitable, even though
its floor be bare and its tables wooden? There is a homely atmosphere
about it, with its cobwebbed rafters, its dingy windows, its big
fireplace, where the rough logs crackle, and its musty ale. It has ever
been a home for the belated traveller, where the viands, steaming hot,
have filled his soul with joy. Oh, the Southdown mutton and the roasts
of beef!

If England has given us naught else, she should be beloved for her
wealth of inns, with their jolly landlords and their pert bar-maids and
their lawns for the game of bowls. May our children's children find them
still unchanged.

In a quaint corner of London, there stood such an inn, in the days of
which we speak; and it lives in our story. When it was built, no one
knew and none cared. Tradition said that it had been a rendezvous for
convivial spirits for ages that had gone. A sign hung from the door, on
which was a boar's head; and under it, in Old English lettering, might
have been deciphered, if the reader had the wit to read, "Ye Blue Boar
Inn."

It was the evening of a certain day, known to us all, in the reign of
good King Charles. Three yesty spirits sat convivially enjoying the
warmth of the fire upon the huge hearth. A keg was braced in the centre
of the room. One of the merry crew--none other, indeed, than Swallow, a
constable to the King--sat astride the cask, Don Quixote-like. In place
of the dauntless lance, he was armed with a sturdy mug of good old ale.
He sang gaily to a tune of his own, turning ever and anon for
approbation to Buzzard, another spirit of like guild, who sat in a
semi-maudlin condition by the table, and also to the moon-faced landlord
of the inn, who encouraged the joviality of his guests--not forgetting
to count the cups which they demolished.

Swallow sang:

_"Here's a health unto his Majesty, with a fa, la, fa,
Conversion to his enemies with a fa, la, fa,
And he that will not pledge his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself--
With a fa, la, fa,
With a fa, la, fa."_