“Cousin Tom,” said mother, and trying to get so that Annie and I could not hear her; “it would be a sad and unkinlike thing for you to despise our dwelling-house.  We cannot entertain you, as the lordly inns on the road do; and we have small change of victuals.  But the men will go home, being Saturday; and so you will have the fireside all to yourself and the children.  There are some few collops of red deer’s flesh, and a ham just down from the chimney, and some dried salmon from Lynmouth weir, and cold roast-pig, and some oysters.  And if none of those be to your liking, we could roast two woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would make the toast for them.  And the good folk made some mistake last week, going up the country, and left a keg of old Holland cordial in the coving of the wood-rick, having borrowed our Smiler, without asking leave.  I fear there is something unrighteous about it.  But what can a poor widow do?  John Fry would have taken it, but for our Jack.  Our Jack was a little too sharp for him.”

Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, like a billet under his apron, going away in the gray of the morning, as if to kindle his fireplace.  “Why, John,” I said, “what a heavy log!  Let me have one end of it.”  “Thank’e, Jan, no need of thiccy,” he answered, turning his back to me; “waife wanteth a log as will last all day, to kape the crock a zimmerin.”  And he banged his gate upon my heels to make me stop and rub them.  “Why, John,” said I, “you’m got a log with round holes in the end of it.  Who has been cutting gun-wads?  Just lift your apron, or I will.”

But, to return to Tom Faggus—­he stopped to sup that night with us, and took a little of everything; a few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops of venison toasted, and next to that a little cold roast-pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish with, before the Scheidam and hot water.  And having changed his wet things first, he seemed to be in fair appetite, and praised Annie’s cooking mightily, with a kind of noise like a smack of his lips, and a rubbing of his hands together, whenever he could spare them.

He had gotten John Fry’s best small-clothes on, for he said he was not good enough to go into my father’s (which mother kept to look at), nor man enough to fill them.  And in truth my mother was very glad that he refused, when I offered them.  But John was over-proud to have it in his power to say that such a famous man had ever dwelt in any clothes of his; and afterwards he made show of them.  For Mr. Faggus’s glory, then, though not so great as now it is, was spreading very fast indeed all about our neighbourhood, and even as far as Bridgewater.