leggings, and his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with
woollen socks. His face was large and pale, his neck bulged, and he
had a gross unshaven jowl. He was a type familiar to students of
society; not the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good
breeding and all the refinements; a type not unknown in the House of
Lords, especially among recent creations, common enough in the House
of Commons and the City of London, and by no means infrequent in the
governing circles of Labour; the type known to the discerning as the
Licensed Victualler.

His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he gave the travellers
a hearty good afternoon.

"Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson asked.

The landlord looked sharply at him, and then replied to Mr. Heritage.
His expression passed from official bonhomie to official contrition.

"Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible....Ye couldn't have come
at a worse time. I've only been here a fortnight myself, and we
haven't got right shaken down yet. Even then I might have made
shift to do with ye, but the fact is we've illness in the house,
and I'm fair at my wits' end. It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen
away and me that keen to get the business started. But there it is!"
He spat vigorously as if to emphasize the desperation of his quandary.

The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech was overlaid with
something alien, something which might have been acquired in America
or in going down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches, too,
with a nautical air.