The captain of the troop, by this, was pesky cross-tempered, and flounced off to the "Jolly Pilchards" in a huff.

"Sergeant," says he, "here's an inn, though a damned bad 'un, an' here I means to stop.

Somewheres about there's a farm called Constantine, where I'm told the men can be accommodated.
Find out the place, if you can, an' do your best: an' don't let me see yer face till to-morra," says he.
So Sergeant Basket--that was his name--gave the salute, and rode his troop up the street, where--for his manners were mighty winning, notwithstanding the dirty nature of his errand--he soon found plenty to direct him to Farmer Noy's, of Constantine; and up the coombe they rode into the darkness, a dozen or more going along with them to show the way, being won by their martial bearing as well as the sergeant's very friendly way of speech.
Farmer Noy was in bed--a pock-marked, lantern-jawed old gaffer of sixty-five; and the most remarkable point about him was the wife he had married two years before--a young slip of a girl but just husband-high.
Money did it, I reckon; but if so, 'twas a bad bargain for her.
He was noted for stinginess to such a degree that they said his wife wore a brass wedding-ring, weekdays, to save the genuine article from wearing out.

She was a Ruan woman, too, and therefore ought to have known all about him.

But woman's ways be past finding out.
Hearing the hoofs in his yard and the sergeant's _stram-a-ram_ upon the door, down comes the old curmudgeon with a candle held high above his head.
"What the devil's here ?" he calls out.