parson, and were anxious to ascertain how the flesh of him tasted,--when
a stagecoach stopped at the inn. A traveller got out with his carpetbag
in his hand, and was shown into the sanded parlour.

The parson rose politely, and made a bow.

The traveller touched his hat, without taking it off, looked at Mr. Dale
from top to toe, then walked to the window, and whistled a lively,
impatient tune, then strode towards the fireplace and rang the bell; then
stared again at the parson; and that gentleman having courteously laid
down the newspaper, the traveller seized it, threw himself into a chair,
flung one of his legs over the table, tossed the other up on the
mantelpiece, and began reading the paper, while he tilted the chair on
its hind-legs with so daring a disregard to the ordinary position of
chairs and their occupants, that the shuddering parson expected every
moment to see him come down on the back of his skull.

Moved, therefore, to compassion, Mr. Dale said mildly,--"Those chairs are
very treacherous, sir. I'm afraid you'll be down."

"Eh," said the traveller, looking up much astonished. "Eh, down?--oh,
you're satirical, sir."

"Satirical, sir? upon my word, no!" exclaimed the parson, earnestly.

"I think every freeborn man has a right to sit as he pleases in his own
house," resumed the traveller, with warmth; "and an inn is his own house,
I guess, so long as he pays his score. Betty, my dear."

For the chambermaid had now replied to the bell. "I han't Betty, sir; do