Presently from the yard, unshaven and looking as if he had slept in this clothes, came Dobson the innkeeper.
"Good morning," said the poet.

"I hope the sickness in your house is on the mend ?" "Thank ye, it's no worse," was the reply, but in the man's heavy face there was little civility.

His small grey eyes searched their faces.
"We're just waiting for breakfast to get on the road again.

I'm jolly glad we spent the night here.

We found quarters after all, you know." "So I see.