The history of the next day closely corresponded with that of the preceding.  There he sat.  That night there was again a strong muster around the capacious hearth of the Mermaid.  If the stranger was deficient in that inherent passion of the human mind—­curiosity—­not so the villagers.  But one sentiment seemed to pervade the assembled party, and that may be summed up in the words “Who is he?” An echo responded “Who is he?” Conjecture was literally at a fault.  His very appearance was unknown to all except the fortunate few that had beheld him in his march from the pier; the fishing boat had put to sea before any one thought of making inquiry as to the freight it had delivered, but every one agreed that there was something of an extraordinary character about the said freight.  Ever and anon the parlour door opened, and a lusty ring of the hand-bell summoned the hostess into that now mysterious room:  and the volley of questions which assailed her on her return were enough to overturn the very moderate stock of patience which she possessed, had it been centupled.  She declared that “the jintleman was like other jintlemen, and barring that he seemed the b’y for the brandy,” she saw nothing amiss in him.  In the midst of this excitement in walked the officer commanding the preventive service of the district.  He was soon closeted in the sanctum, and after a due discussion of the singular proceedings of the stranger, on the part of each member of the Lanport smoking club, the worthy lieutenant declared “it was not only d——­d odd, but very suspicious;” and that he would beard the foe who had so unceremoniously taken possession of their own proper apartment, face to face, even though he should turn out to be Beelzebub, in propria persona.  This determination was received with a vast and simultaneous puff of exultation from every pipe in the room, so that the cloud was for a short space so great as completely to envelope the ample proportions of Mrs. Judy Teague, who had been an unnoticed witness of this bold proposal.  The lieutenant was striding onwards in full career towards the parlour, which lay at the opposite side of the intervening kitchen, when he somewhat roughly encountered the fair form of Mrs. Teague, which was extended halfway through the doorcase with a view to prevent his egress.

“Och! murder, Lafetennant ——­, and is this the way you’d be sarving a lone woman, and she a widow these twelve year agon, since Michael Tague’s (Heaven rest his sowl!) been laid aneath the turf!”

The lieutenant apologized for the rather unceremonious way in which he had run foul of Mrs. Teague.

“Och!  Lafetennant,” she responded, “its not that agra! (here she gave a twinge) that Judy Tague would ever spake of from the like of you—­but its against your goin’ and insulting the jintl’m in the parlour that I was spaking of—­and a rale jintl’m he is, I’ll be bail.”