Half an hour afterward Edward Lynde dismounted at the steps of the
rustic hotel. The wooden shutters were down now, and the front door
stood hospitably open. A change had come over the entire village. There
were knots of persons at the street corners and at garden gates,
discussing the event of the day. There was also a knot of gossips in the
hotel barroom to whom the landlord, Mr. Zeno Dodge, was giving a
thrilling account of an attack made on the tavern by a maniac who had
fancied himself a horse!

"The critter," cried Mr. Dodge dramatically, "was on the p'int of
springin' up the piazzy, when Martha handed me the shot-gun."

Mr. Dodge was still in a heroic attitude, with one arm stretched out to
receive the weapon and his eye following every movement of a maniac
obligingly personated by the cuspidor between the windows, when Lynde
entered. Mr. Dodge's arm slowly descended to his side, his jaw fell, and
the narrative broke off short.

Lynde requested dinner in a private room, and Mr. Dodge deposed the maid
in order to bring in the dishes himself and scrutinize his enigmatical
guest. In serving the meal the landlord invented countless pretexts to
remain in the room. After a while Lynde began to feel it uncomfortable
to have those sharp green eyes continually boring into the back of his
head.

"Yes," he exclaimed wearily, "I am the man."

"I thought you was. Glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Dodge politely.

"This morning you took me for an escaped lunatic?"