No gentleman but a highwayman
would be there, they believe.
Only one man remained in the bar to-night, a jovial fellow of the farmer
type, a lover of horses by his talk, and he was wont to boast that he
had made the fortune of more than one gentleman of the road by the
animal he had sold him.
"Shut the door, landlord. I'll wait a bit, and have another tankard of
ale. I'm expecting a visitor."
"Who may that be?"
"One you know well enough, but perhaps you haven't seen him for some
time."
In a few minutes there was a sharp knock at the door, and, when the
landlord opened it, there entered a man wearing a brown mask and
carrying a shapeless parcel under his arm.
"'Galloping Hermit!'" exclaimed the landlord, and it was evident that he
was pleased to see his visitor.
"So you got my message," said the highwayman to the farmer.
"Aye, but I doubt if I've got a horse to sell that you would care to
ride. What's become o' that mare o' yourn?"
"She's in the stables--I've just put her there. I want you to take her."
"Buy her? Well, I'll look at her, but buying and selling are two
different things."
"Do you suppose I'd sell her?" was the answer.
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