the door through which i had burst like a battering ram opened straight into a sort of kitchen, so although i entered in a most undignified way, in fact on my hands and knees, i was well-established in the centre of the room before the man and woman emerged from behind the door, where my successful assault had thrown them. i stood up and faced them. they were a couple of ordinary, respectably-attired country people. the man, a sturdy, strong-built, bull-necked rascal, stood scowling at me, and, i concluded, making up his mind as to what course to pursue.

“my good people,” i said, “you are behaving in the most unheard-of manner. can’t you understand that i mean to pay you well for any trouble i give you? but whether you like it or not, here i stay to-night. to turn me out would be sheer murder.”

so saying i pulled off my overcoat, and began shaking the snow out of my whiskers.

i dare say my determined attitude, my respectable, as well as my muscular appearance, impressed my unwilling hosts. anyway, they gave in without more ado. whilst the woman shut the door, through which the snow-flakes were whirling, the man said sullenly:

“well, you’ll have to spend the night on a chair. we’ve no beds here for strangers. ’specially those as ain’t wanted.”

“very well, my friend. having settled the matter you may as well make yourself pleasant. go out and put my horse under cover, and give him a feed of some sort—make a mash if you can.”

after giving the woman a quick glance as of warning, my scowling host lit a horn lantern, and went on the errand i suggested. i gladly sank into a chair, and warmed myself before a cheerful fire. the prospect of spending the night amid such discomfort was not alluring, but i had, at least, a roof over my head.

as a rule, the more churlish the nature, the more avaricious it is found to be. my promise of liberal remuneration was, after all, not without its effect upon the strange couple whose refusal to afford me refuge had so nearly endangered my life. they condescended to get me some tea and rough food. after i had disposed of all that, the man produced a bottle of gin. we filled our glasses, and then, with the aid of my pipe, i settled down to make the best of a night spent in a hard wooden chair.

i had come across strange people in my travels, but i have no hesitation in saying that my host was the sullenest, sulkiest, most boorish specimen of human nature i had as yet met with. in spite of his recent ill-treatment of me i was quite ready to establish matters on a friendly footing, and made several attempts to draw him into conversation. the brute would only answer in monosyllables, or often not answer at all. so i gave up talking as a bad job, and sat in silence, smoking and looking into the fire, thinking a good deal, it may be, of some one i should have met that morning at lilymere had the wretched snow but kept off.

the long clock—that cumbrous eight-day machine which inevitably occupies one corner of every cottager’s kitchen—struck nine. the woman rose and left us. i concluded she was going to bed. if so, i envied her. her husband showed no sign of retiring. he still sat over the fire, opposite me. by this time i was dreadfully[276] tired: every bone in my body ached. the hard chair which an hour or two ago, seemed all i could desire, now scarcely came up to my ideas of the comfort i was justly entitled to claim. my sulky companion had been drinking silently but steadily. perhaps the liquor he had poured into himself might have rendered his frame of mind more pleasant and amenable to reason.

“my good fellow,” i said, “your chairs are excellent ones of the kind, but deucedly uncomfortable. i am horribly tired. if the resources of your establishment can’t furnish a bed for me to sleep in, couldn’t you find a mattress or something to lay down before the fire?”

“you’ve got all you’ll get to-night,” he answered, knocking the ashes out his pipe.

“oh, but i say!”

“so do i say. i say this: if you don’t like it you can leave it. we didn’t ask you to come.”

“you infernal beast,” i muttered—and meant it too—i declare had i not been so utterly worn out, i would have had that bullet-headed ruffian up for a few rounds on his own kitchen floor, and tried to knock him into a more amiable frame of mind.

“never mind,” i said; “but, remember, civility costs nothing, and often gets rewarded. however, if you wish to retire to your own couch don’t let your native politeness stand in your way. pray don’t hesitate on my account. leave plenty of fuel, and i shall manage until morning.”

“where you stay, i stay,” he answered. then he filled his pipe, and once more relapsed into stony silence.

i bothered about him no more. i dozed off for a few minutes—woke—dozed off again for some hours. i was in an uncomfortable sort of half sleep, crammed full of curious dreams—dreams from which i started, wondering where i was and how i got there. i even began to grow nervous. all sorts of horrible travellers’ tales ran through my head. it was in just such places as this that unsuspecting voyagers were stated to have been murdered and robbed, by just such unmitigated ruffians as my host—i can tell you that altogether i spent a most pleasant night.

to make matters worse and more dismal the storm still raged outside. the wind moaned through the trees, but it had again changed, and i knew from the sound on the window-panes that heavy rain had succeeded snow. as the big drops of water found their way down the large old-fashioned chimney, the fire hissed and spluttered like a spiteful vixen. everything combined to deprive me of what dog’s sleep i could by sheer persistency snatch.

i think i tried every position which an ordinary man, not an acrobat, is capable of adopting with the assistance of a common wooden chair. i even lay down on the hard flags. i actually tried the table. i propped up the upper half of my body against the corner walls of the room; but found no rest. at last i gave up all idea of sleeping, and fully aroused myself. i comforted myself by saying that my misery was only temporary—that the longest night must come to an end.

my companion had by now succumbed to fatigue, or to the combined effects of fatigue and gin-and-water. his head was hanging sideways, and he slept in a most uncomfortable attitude. i chuckled as i looked at him, feeling quite sure that if such a clod was capable of dreaming at all, his dreams must be worse even than mine. i filled another pipe, poked the smoldering logs into a blaze, and sat almost nose and knees over the fire, finding some amusement in speculating upon the condition of the churl before me, and thanking the lord i was not like unto this man. suddenly an idea flashed across me.

i had seen this fellow before. but when or where i could not remember. his features, as i looked at them with keener interest, seemed to grow more and more familiar to me. where could i have met him? somewhere or other, but where? i racked my brain to associate him with some scene, some event. although he was but an ordinary countryman, such as one sees scores of in a day’s ride, only differing from his kind on account of his unpleasant face, i felt sure we were old acquaintances. when he awoke for a moment and changed his strained attitude, my feeling grew stronger and stronger. yet puzzle and puzzle as i would i could not call to mind a former encounter; so at last i began to think the supposed recognition was pure fancy on my part.

having smoked out several pipes, i thought that a cigar would be a slight break to the monotony of the night’s proceedings. so i drew out my case and looked at its contents. among the weeds was one of a lighter color than the others. as i took it out i said to myself, “why, old brand gave me that one when i was last at his house.” curiously enough that cigar was the missing link in the chain of my memory. as i held it in my hand i knew at once why my host’s ugly face seemed familiar to me.

about a fortnight before, being in town, i had spent the evening with the doctor. he was not alone, and i was introduced to a tall pale young man named carriston. he was a pleasant, polite young fellow, although not much in my line. at first i judged him to be a would-be poet of the fashionable miserable school; but finding that he and brand talked so much about art i eventually decided that he was one of the doctor’s many artist friends. art is a hobby he hacks about on grandly. (mem. brand’s own attempt at pictures are simply atrocious!)

just before i left, carriston, the doctor’s back being turned, asked me to step into another room. there he showed me the portrait of a man. it seemed very cleverly drawn, and i presumed he wanted me to criticise it.

“i am a precious bad judge,” i said.

“i am not asking you to pass an opinion,” said carriston. “i want to beg a favor of you. i am almost ashamed to beg it on so short an acquaintance.”

he seemed modest, and not in want of money, so i encouraged him to proceed.

“i heard you say you were going into the country,” he resumed. “i want to ask you if by any chance you should meet the original of that drawing to telegraph at once to dr. brand.”

“whereabouts does he live?”

“i have no idea. if chance throws him in your way please do as i ask.”

“certainly i will,” i said, seeing the young man made the request in solemn earnest.

he thanked me, and then gave me a small photograph of the picture. this photograph he begged me to keep in my pocket-book, so that i might refer to it in case i met the man he wanted. i put it there, went my way, and, am sorry to say, forget all about it. had it not been for the strange cigar in my case bringing back carriston’s unusual request to my mind, the probabilities are that i should not have thought again of the matter. now, by a remarkable coincidence, i was spending the night with the very man, who, so far as my memory served me, must have sat for the portrait shown me at brand’s house.

“i wonder what i did with the photo,” i said. i turned out my letter-case. there it was, right enough! shading it with one hand, i carefully compared it with the sleeper.

not a doubt about it! so far as a photograph taken from a picture can go, it was the man himself. the same ragged beard, the same coarse features, the same surly look. young carriston was evidently a wonderful hand at knocking off a likeness. moreover, in case i had felt any doubt in the matter, a printed note at the bottom of the photograph said that one joint was missing from a right-hand finger. sure enough, my friend lacked that small portion of his misbegotten frame.

this discovery threw me in an ecstasy of delight. i laughed so loudly that i almost awoke the ruffian. i guessed i was going to take a glorious revenge for all the discomforts i had suffered. no one, i felt sure, could be looking for such a fellow as this to do any good to him. i was quite happy in the thought, and for the remainder of the night gloated over the idea of putting a spoke in the wheel of one who had been within an ace of causing my death. i resolved, the[281] moment i got back to civilization, to send the desired intelligence to brand, and hope for the best.