Much obliged." He walked away.

Outside the gates he paused and shook his clinched fist menacingly at the noble old house.
"I'll pay you out, my fine feller, if ever I get a chance! You're a very great man, and a very proud man, Sir Everard Kingsland, and you own a fine fortune and a haughty, handsome wife, and G.W.

Parmalee's no more than the mud under your feet.

Very well--we'll see! 'Every dog has his day,' and 'the longest lane has its turning,' and you're near about the end of your tether, and George Parmalee has you and your fine lady under his thumb--under his thumb--and he'll crush you, sir--yes, by Heaven, he'll crush you, and strike you back blow for blow!" True to his word, ho ordered unlimited supplies of brown paper and vinegar, rum and water, pipes and tobacco, swore at his questioners, and adjourned to his bedroom to await the coming of nightfall and Sybilla Silver.
The short winter day wore on.

A good conscience, a sound digestion, rum and smoke _ad libitum_, enabled our wounded artist to sleep comfortably through it, and he was still snoring when Mrs.Wedge, the landlady, came to his bedside with a flaring tallow candle, and woke him up.
"Which I've been a-knockin' and a-knockin'," Mrs.Wedge cried, shrilly, "fit to knock the skin off my blessed knuckles, Mr.Parmalee, and couldn't wake you no more'n the dead.