“Well, get us some from there, like a good man, to wash with if we cannot drink it, and have it taken up to our room,” for it had appeared that the two pedestrians were to inhabit a double-bedded apartment.

“’Ere, you Timotheus, look spry and go down to the crick and fetch a pail of water for No. 6.”

A shambling man, almost a hobbledehoy, of about twenty five, ran out to obey the command, and, when he returned from No. 6, informed Wilkinson civilly that the water was in his room.  Something in his homely but pleasant face, in his shock head and in his voice, seemed familiar to the dominie, yet he could not place his man; when Coristine came along and said, “You’ve got a brother on the Susan Thomas, haven’t you, and his name is Sylvanus?” The young man shuffled with his feet, opened a mouth the very counterpart of “The Crew’s,” and answered:  “Yes, mister, he’s my oldest brother, is Sylvanus; do you happen to know Sylvanus?”

“Know him?” said the unblushing lawyer, “like a brother; sailed all over Lake Simcoe with him.”

The lad was proud, and went to his menial tasks with a new sense of the dignity of his family.  He was called for on all sides, and appeared to be the only member of the household in perpetual request; but, though many liberties were taken with him personally, none were taken with his name, which was always given in full, “Ti-mo-the-us!” Wilkinson was too tired, thirsty and generally disgusted to do anything but sit, as he never would have sat elsewhere, on a chair tilted against the wall.  Coristine would fain have had a talk with “The Crew’s” brother, but that worthy was ever flitting about from bar-room to kitchen, and from well to stable; always busy and always cheerful.

The Grinstun man came swaggering up after treating all hands at the bar to whisky, in which treat the pedestrians were included by invitation, declined with thanks, and suggested a game of cards—­any game they liked—­stakes to be drinks; or, if the gents preferred it, cigars.  Coristine somewhat haughtily refused, and Wilkinson, true to his principles, but in a more conciliatory tone, said that he did not play them.  He was obliged, therefore, to get the landlord, Matt, and a couple of bar-room loafers to take hands with him.

“Wilks, my dear boy, get out your draft-board and I’ll play you a game,” said Coristine.

The board was produced, the flat, cardboard chessmen turned upside down, and the corner of a table, on which a few well-thumbed newspapers lay, utilized for the game.  The players were so interested in making moves and getting kings that, at first, they did not notice the talk of the card players which was directed against them; for Matt, being called away to his bar, was replaced by a third loafer.  Gradually there came to their ears the words, “conceited, offish, up-settin’, pedlars, tramps, pious scum,” with condemnatory and other adjectives prefixed, and then they knew that their characters and occupations