Observing, as I came up, how heavily he leaned against the tree, and noting the extreme pallor of his face and the blank gaze of his sunken eyes, I touched him upon the shoulder.

“Sir, I trust you are not hurt?” said I.

“Thank you,” he answered, his glance still wandering, “not in the least—­assure you—­merely tap on the nose, sir—­unpleasant—­damnably, but no more, no more.”

“I think,” said I, holding out the battered hat, “I think this is yours?”

His eye encountering it in due time, he reached out his hand somewhat fumblingly, and took it from me with a slight movement of the head and shoulders that might have been a bow.

“Thank you—­yes—­should know it among a thousand,” said he dreamily, “an old friend and a tried—­a very much tried one—­many thanks.”  With which words he clapped the much-tried friend upon his head, and with another movement that might have been a bow, turned short round and strode away.  And as he went, despite the careless swing of his shoulder, his legs seemed to falter somewhat in their stride and once I thought he staggered; yet, as I watched, half minded to follow after him, he settled his hat more firmly with a light tap upon the crown and, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his threadbare coat, fell to whistling lustily, and so, turning a bend in the road, vanished from my sight.

And presently, my thirst recurring to me, I approached the inn, and descending three steps entered its cool shade.  Here I found four men, each with his pipe and tankard, to whom a large, red-faced, big-fisted fellow was holding forth in a high state of heat and indignation.

“Wot’s England a-comin’ to?—­that’s wot I wants to know,” he was saying; “wot’s England a-comin’ to when thievin’ robbers can come a-walkin’ in on you a-stealin’ a pint o’ your best ale out o’ your very own tankard under your very own nose—­wot’s it a-comin’ to?”

“Ah!” nodded the others solemnly, “that’s it, Joel—­wot?”

“W’y,” growled the red-faced innkeeper, bringing his big fist down with a bang, “it’s a-comin’ to per—­dition; that’s wot it’s a-comin’ to!”

“And wot,” inquired a rather long, bony man with a face half-hidden in sandy whisker, “wot might per—­dition be, Joel; likewise, wheer?”

“You must be a danged fule, Tom, my lad!” retorted he whom they called Joel, redder in the face than ever.

“Ay, that ye must!” chorused the others.

“I only axed ‘wot an’ wheer.”

“Only axed, did ye?” repeated Joel scornfully,

“Ah,” nodded the other, “that’s all.”

“But you’re always a-axin’, you are,” said Joel gloomily.

“W’ich I notice,” retorted the man Tom, blowing into his tankard, “w’ich I notice as you ain’t never over-fond o’ answerin’.”

“Oh!—­I ain’t, ain’t I?”

“No, you ain’t,” repeated Tom, “nohow.”

Here the red-faced man grew so very red indeed that the others fell to coughing, all together, and shuffling their feet and giving divers other evidences of their embarrassment, all save the unimpressionable Tom.