"And perhaps, sir, while you are eating it you can think of a name for
my inn."

"Why, it has a sign-board already," said Wogan, "and a name, too, I
suppose."

"It has a sign-board, but without a device," said the landlord, and
while Wogan drew a chair to the table he explained his predicament.

"There is another inn five miles along the road, and travellers prefer
to make their halt there. They will not stop here. My father, sir, set
it all down to paint. It was his dream, sir, to paint the house from
floor to ceiling; his last words bade me pinch and save until I could
paint. Well, here is the house painted, and I am anxious for a new
device and name which shall obliterate the memory of the other. 'The
Black Eagle' is its old name. Ask any traveller familiar with the road
between Augsburg and Schlestadt, and he will counsel you to avoid 'The
Black Eagle.' You are travelling to Schlestadt, perhaps."

Wogan had started ever so slightly.

"To Strasbourg," he said, and thereafter ate his supper in silence,
taking count with himself. "My friend," so his thoughts ran, "the sooner
you reach Schlestadt the better. Here are you bleating like a sheep at a
mere chance mention of your destination. You have lived too close with
this fine scheme of yours. You need your friends."

Wogan began to be conscious of an unfamiliar sense of loneliness. It
grew upon him that evening while he sat at the table; it accompanied him