wear. It looked so sly and wicked as it lay there, and brought back
the events of the day so sharply that a queer dread took me of being
discovered with it. I pulled out my pistol, loaded it (they had
given me back both the powder and pistol found on me when I was
taken), and laid it beside my plate. This done, I went on with my
supper--it was an excellent cold capon--and all the time the flute
up-stairs kept toot-tootling without stopping, except to change the
tune. It gave me "Hearts of Oak," "Why, Soldiers, why?" "Like Hermit
Poor," and "Come, Lasses and Lads," before I had fairly cleared the
dish.

"And now," thought I, "I have had a good supper; but there are still
three things to be done. In the first place I want drink, in the
second I want a bed, and in the third I want to thank this kind
person, whoever he is, for his hospitality. I'm not going to begin
life No. 2 with housebreaking."

I rose, slipped the pistol into my tail-pocket, and followed the
sound up the ramshackle stairs. My footsteps made such a racket on
their old timbers as fairly to frighten me, but it never disturbed
the flute-player. He had harked back again to "Like Hermit Poor" by
this time, and the dolefulness of it was fit to make the dead cry
out, but he went whining on until I reached the head of the stairs
and struck a rousing knock on the door.

The playing stopped. "Come in," said a cheery voice; but it gave me
no cheerfulness. Instead of that, it sent all the comfort of my
supper clean out of me, as I opened the door and saw _him_ sitting
there.