"It's _your_ chice, an' _your_ livin'! _You_ likes the road, an' _you_ makes your grub on it! 'Taint no use _you_ findin' fault with the gettin' o' _your_ victuals!" "Who's findin' fault, Mister Dubble ?" asked Peke soothingly.

"I on'y said 'twas powerful warm." "An' no one but a sawny 'xpects it to be powerful cold in July," growled Dubble--"though some there is an' some there be what cries fur snow in August, but I aint one on 'em." "No, 'e aint one on 'em," commented a burly farmer, blowing away the foam from the brim of a tankard of ale which was set on the table in front of him.

"'E alluz takes just what cooms along easy loike, do Mizter Dubble!" There followed a silence.

It was instinctively felt that the discussion was hardly important enough to be continued.

Moreover, every man in the room was conscious of a stranger's presence, and each one cast a furtive glance at Helmsley, who, imitating Peke's example, had taken off his hat, and now sat quietly under the flickering light of the oil lamp which was suspended from the middle of the ceiling.