As the vehicle jolted through Shropshire Street, the creakings of its unsteady wheels mingled with a deep humming, as of innumerable bees, proceeding from the heart of the town.  Turning the corner by the butchers’ bulks into the High Street, the cart came to an abrupt stop.  In front, from the corn market, a large wooden structure in the center of the street, to the Talbot Inn, stretched a dense mass of people; partly townfolk, as might be discerned by their dress, partly country folk who, having come in from outlying villages to market, had presumably been kept in the town by their curiosity or the fair weather.

“We’n better goo round about, Measter,” said the driver, to the passenger at his side.  “Summat’s afoot down yander.”

“You’re a wise man, to be sure.  Something’s afoot, as you truly say.  And, being troubled from my youth up with an inquiring nose, I’ll e’en step forward and smell out the occasion.  Do you bide here, my Jehu, till I come back.”

“Why, I will, then, Measter, but my name binna Jehu.  ’Tis plain Tummus.”

“You don’t say so!  Now I come to think of it, it suits you better than Jehu, for the Son of Nimshi drove furiously.  Well, Tummus, I will not keep you long; this troublesome nose of mine, I dare say, will soon be satisfied.”

By this time he had slipped down from his seat, and was walking toward the throng.  Now that he was upon his feet, he showed himself to be more than common tall, spare and loose jointed.  His face was lean and swarthy, his eyes black and restless; his well-cut lips even now wore the same smile as when he mischievously misnamed his driver.  Though he wore the usual dress of the Englishman of his day—­frock, knee breeches and buckle shoes, none of them in their first youth—­there was a something outlandish about him, in the bright yellow of his neckcloth and the red feather stuck at a jaunty angle into the ribbon of his hat; and Tummus, as he looked curiously after his strange passenger, shook his head and bit the straw in his mouth, and muttered: 

“Ay, it binna on’y the nose, ‘t binna on’y the nose, with his Jehus an’ such.”

Meanwhile the man strode rapidly along, reached the fringe of the crowd, and appeared to make his way through its mass without difficulty, perhaps by reason of his commanding height, possibly by the aforesaid quaintness of his aspect, and the smile which forbade any one to regard him as an aggressor.  He went steadily on until he came opposite to the Talbot Inn.  At that moment a stillness fell upon the crowd; every voice was hushed; every head was craned towards the open windows of the inn’s assembly room.

Gazing with the rest, the stranger saw a long table glittering under the soft radiance of many candles and surrounded by a numerous company—­fat and thin, old and young, red-faced and pale, gentle and simple.  At the end farthest from the street one figure stood erect—­a short, round, rubicund little man, wearing a gown of rusty black, one thumb stuck into his vest, and a rosy benignity in the glance with which he scanned the table.  He threw back his head, cleared his tight throat sonorously, and began, in tones perhaps best described as treacly, to address the seated company, with an intention also towards the larger audience without.