did n't ketch, an' you 're the fiddler's wife."
The laughter sent the tavern-keeper flying from the field. We borrowed some odd pieces of clothing, got the lantern, and went down to the stable to groom our horses.
A man might travel about quite as untidy as Nebuchadnezzar when events were jamming him, but his horse was rubbed and cleaned if the heavens tumbled. I held the lantern, an old iron frame with glass sides, while Jud and Ump curried the horses, rubbing the dust out of their hair, and washing their eyes and nostrils.
We were speculating on the mission of the blacksmith, and the destination of Parson Peppers, of whose singing I had told, when the talk came finally to Twiggs.
"I 'd give a purty," said Ump, "to know what word that devil was carryin'."
"Quiller had a chance to find out," answered Jud, "an' he shied away from it."
"What 's that?" cried the hunchback, coming out from under the Bay Eagle. He wore a long blue coat that dragged the ground,
