‘Well, well, as I say,’ he resumed, ’I am going to Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go.  I should have been almost there by this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I’m not sorry for it.’

‘You don’t live in Casterbridge?’ said the shepherd.

‘Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.’

‘Going to set up in trade, perhaps?’

‘No, no,’ said the shepherd’s wife.  ’It is easy to see that the gentleman is rich, and don’t want to work at anything.’

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would accept that definition of himself.  He presently rejected it by answering, ’Rich is not quite the word for me, dame.  I do work, and I must work.  And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I must begin work there at eight to-morrow morning.  Yes, het or wet, blow or snow, famine or sword, my day’s work to-morrow must be done.’

‘Poor man!  Then, in spite o’ seeming, you be worse off than we?’ replied the shepherd’s wife.

’’Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens.  ’Tis the nature of my trade more than my poverty . . .  But really and truly I must up and off, or I shan’t get a lodging in the town.’  However, the speaker did not move, and directly added, ’There’s time for one more draught of friendship before I go; and I’d perform it at once if the mug were not dry.’

‘Here’s a mug o’ small,’ said Mrs. Fennel.  ’Small, we call it, though to be sure ‘tis only the first wash o’ the combs.’

‘No,’ said the stranger disdainfully.  ’I won’t spoil your first kindness by partaking o’ your second.’

‘Certainly not,’ broke in Fennel.  ’We don’t increase and multiply every day, and I’ll fill the mug again.’  He went away to the dark place under the stairs where the barrel stood.  The shepherdess followed him.

‘Why should you do this?’ she said reproachfully, as soon as they were alone.  ’He’s emptied it once, though it held enough for ten people; and now he’s not contented wi’ the small, but must needs call for more o’ the strong!  And a stranger unbeknown to any of us.  For my part, I don’t like the look o’ the man at all.’

’But he’s in the house, my honey; and ’tis a wet night, and a christening.  Daze it, what’s a cup of mead more or less?  There’ll be plenty more next bee-burning.’

‘Very well—­this time, then,’ she answered, looking wistfully at the barrel.  ’But what is the man’s calling, and where is he one of; that he should come in and join us like this?’

‘I don’t know.  I’ll ask him again.’

The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel.  She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one at a discreet distance from him.  When he had tossed off his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger’s occupation.