"Come in, travellers." A gust of wind and sleet rushed through the
opening and stung their faces. With the gust there seemed to blow in the
figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into
their midst as if he were an India rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand.
Behind him strode in Manners, the liveryman of Monday Port.

"Here's a guest for you, Mr. Frost. I confess I did my best to keep him
in town till morning, but nothing 'd do; he must get to the Inn at the
Red Oak to-night. We had a hellish time getting here too, begging the
lady's pardon; but here we are."

Good-naturedly he had taken hold of his fare and, as he spoke, was
helping the stranger unwrap himself from the enveloping cloak.

"He's welcome," said Dan. "Here, sir, let me help you." He put out his
hand to steady the curious old gentleman, who, at last, gasping for
breath and blinking the sleet out of his eyes, had been unrolled by
Manners from the dripping cloak.

He was a strange figure of a man, they thought, as Dan led him to the
fire to thaw himself out. He was scarcely more than five and a half feet
in height, with tiny hands and feet almost out of proportion even to his
diminutive size. He was an old man, they would have said, though his
movements were quick and agile as if he were set up on springs. His face,
small, sharp-featured and weazened, was seamed with a thousand wrinkles.
His wig was awry, its powder, washed out by the melting sleet, was
dripping on his face in pasty streaks; and from beneath it had fallen
wisps of thin grey hair, which plastered themselves against his temples
and forehead. This last feature was also out of proportion to the rest of
his physiognomy, for it was of extraordinary height, and of a polished