wearing old riding breeches
unbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman's boots. He had no
leggings, and his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with woollen
socks. His face was large and pale, his neck bulged, and he had a
gross unshaven jowl. He was a type familiar to students of society;
not the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good breeding and
all the refinements; a type not unknown in the House of Lords,
especially among recent creations, common enough in the House of
Commons and the City of London, and by no means infrequent in the
governing circles of Labour; the type known to the discerning as the
Licensed Victualler.

His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he gave the travellers a
hearty good afternoon.

"Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson asked.

The landlord looked sharply at him, and then replied to Mr. Heritage.
His expression passed from official bonhomie to official contrition.

"Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible.... Ye couldn't have come at
a worse time. I've only been here a fortnight myself, and we haven't
got right shaken down yet. Even then I might have made shift to do
with ye, but the fact is we've illness in the house, and I'm fair at my
wits' end. It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen away and me that keen
to get the business started. But there it is!" He spat vigorously as
if to emphasize the desperation of his quandary.

The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech was overlaid with
something alien, something which might have been acquired in America or
in going down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches, too, with
a nautical air.

"Is there nowhere else we can put up?" Dickson asked.

"Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld wives that packed
thegether they haven't room for an extra hen. But it's grand weather,
and it's not above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the word and I'll
yoke the horse and drive ye there."

"Thank you. We prefer to walk," said Mr. Heritage. Dickson would
have tarried to inquire after the illness in the house, but his
companion hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the landlord
still on the doorstep gazing after them.

"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage sourly. "I wouldn't trust
my neck in his pot-house. Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm going to
leave this place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow. Besides,
I'm determined on tea."

The little street slept in the