The innkeeper helped him without a word, but the
girl's hand shook under his gaze as she passed him some coffee.
"As soft a bed as ever I slept in," he remarked.
"I hope that you slept well," said the girl, civilly.
"Like a child," said Gunn, gravely; "an easy conscience. Eh, Mullet?"
The innkeeper nodded and went on eating. The other, after another remark
or two, followed his example, glancing occasionally with warm approval at
the beauty of the girl who sat at the head of the table.
"A sweet girl," he remarked, as she withdrew at the end of the meal; "and
no mother, I presume?"
"No mother," repeated the other.
Gunn sighed and shook his head.
"A sad case, truly," he murmured. "No mother and such a guardian. Poor
soul, if she but knew! Well, we must find her a husband."
He looked down as he spoke, and catching sight of his rusty clothes and
broken shoes, clapped his hand to his pocket; and with a glance at his
host, sallied out to renew his wardrobe. The innkeeper, with an
inscrutable face, watched him down the quay, then with bent head he
returned to the house and fell to work on his accounts.
In this work Gunn, returning an hour later, clad from head to foot in new
apparel, offered to assist him. Mullett hesitated, but made no demur;
neither did he join in the ecstasies which his new partner displayed at
the sight of the profits. Gunn put some more gold into his new pockets,
and throwing himself back in a chair, called loudly to George to bring
him some drink.
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