Beta Book

.. Gee whittakers!"
The shadows slipped in arabesques over the dust-gray floor and
scampered as bravely among the rafters as though they were in
such a tale as men told in believing days. Rustics in smocks
drank ale from tankards; and in a corner was snoring an
ear-ringed peddler with his beetle-black head propped on an
oilcloth pack.
Stamping in, chilly from the ride, Mr. Wrenn laughed aloud.
With a comfortable feeling on the side toward the fire he stuck
his slight legs straight out before the old-time settle, looked
devil-may-care, made delightful ridges on the sanded floor with
his toe, and clapped a pewter pot on his knee with a small
emphatic "Wop!" After about two and a quarter tankards he broke
out, "Say, that peddler guy there, don't he look like he was a
gipsy--you know--sneaking through the hedges around the
manner-house to steal the earl's daughter, huh?"
"Yes.... You're a romanticist, then, I take it?"
"Yes, I guess I am. Kind of. Like to read romances and stuff."
He stared at Mittyford beseechingly.


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