The squire was a hunter, of the old sort: a hard rider, deep drinker, and heavy slumberer.

Before venturing to shake his arm Sewis struck a light and flashed it over the squire's eyelids to make the task of rousing him easier.

At the first touch the squire sprang up, swearing by his Lord Harry he had just dreamed of fire, and muttering of buckets.
'Sewis! you're the man, are you: where has it broken out ?' 'No, sir; no fire,' said Sewis; 'you be cool, sir.' 'Cool, sir! confound it, Sewis, haven't I heard a whole town of steeples at work?
I don't sleep so thick but I can hear, you dog! Fellow comes here, gives me a start, tells me to be cool; what the deuce! nobody hurt, then?
all right!' The squire had fallen back on his pillow and was relapsing to sleep.
Sewis spoke impressively: 'There's a gentleman downstairs; a gentleman downstairs, sir.

He has come rather late.' 'Gentleman downstairs come rather late.' The squire recapitulated the intelligence to possess it thoroughly.

'Rather late, eh?
Oh! Shove him into a bed, and give him hot brandy and water, and be hanged to him!' Sewis had the office of tempering a severely distasteful announcement to the squire.
He resumed: 'The gentleman doesn't talk of staying.