"Now to Farmer Shiner's, and then replenish our insides, father?" said
the tranter.

"Wi' all my heart," said old William, shouldering his bass-viol.

Farmer Shiner's was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a
lane that ran into the principal thoroughfare. The upper windows were
much wider than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad
bay-window where the door might have been expected, gave it by day the
aspect of a human countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and
wicked leer. To-night nothing was visible but the outline of the roof
upon the sky.

The front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as
usual.

"Four breaths, and number thirty-two, 'Behold the Morning Star,'" said
old William.

They had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing
the up bow-stroke previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the
third verse, when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a
roaring voice exclaimed--

"Shut up, woll 'ee! Don't make your blaring row here! A feller wi' a
headache enough to split his skull likes a quiet night!"

Slam went the window.