“You quarrelled, I suppose?”

“No,” said I, “we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted.”

“Well,” replied he, “but you will soon come together again.”

“No,” said I, “we are parted for ever.”

“For ever!  Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come together again who think they are parted for ever.  Here’s something on that point relating to myself.  You remember, when I told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English family in Mumbo Jumbo’s town, and how she and I, when our foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion, agreed to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, and to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades.  Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never to meet again, yet we met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with a great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry, to take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live together till ‘death us do part.’  So much for parting for ever!  But what do I mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your horse’s bridle in your hand, and you on my own ground?  Do you know where you are?  Why, that great house is my inn, that is, it’s my master’s, the best fellow in -.  Come along, you and your horse both will find a welcome at my inn.”

Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were coaches, chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me, he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack—­he then conducted me into a postillion’s keeping-room, which at that time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and sat down by me.

After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and I told him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that, provided I had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be accommodated for some time at his inn.  “Our upper ostler,” said he, “died about a week ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading and accounts.”

“Dear me,” said I, interrupting him, “I am not fitted for the place of ostler—­moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public-house, which was offered to me only a few days ago.”  The postillion burst into a laugh.  “Ostler at a public-house, indeed! why, you would not compare a berth at a place like that with the situation of ostler at my inn, the first road-house in England!  However, I was not thinking of the place of ostler for you; you are, as you say, not fitted for it, at any rate, not at a house like this.  We have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all England—­old Bill, with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink.  We could make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a man of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay and corn which comes in and goes out, and wouldn’t object to give a look occasionally at the yard.  Now it appears to me that you are just such a kind of man, and, if you will allow me to speak to the governor, I don’t doubt that he will gladly take you, as he feels kindly disposed towards you from what he has heard me say concerning you.”