Helmsley was just thinking that he would slip away and get to bed, when, a firm tread sounded in the outer passage, and a tall man, black-haired, black-eyed, and of herculean build, suddenly looked in upon the tavern company with a familiar nod and smile.
"Hullo, my hearties!" he exclaimed.

"Is all tankards drained, or is a drop to spare ?" A shout of welcome greeted him:--"Tom!" "Tom o' the Gleam!" "Come in, Tom!" "Drinks all round!"-- and there followed a general hustle and scraping of chairs on the floor,--every one seemed eager to make room for the newcomer.

Helmsley, startled in a manner by his appearance, looked at him with involuntary and undisguised admiration.

Such a picturesque figure of a man he had seldom or never seen, yet the fellow was clad in the roughest, raggedest homespun, the only striking and curious note of colour about him being a knitted crimson waistcoat, which instead of being buttoned was tied together with two or three tags of green ribbon.

He stood for a moment watching the men pushing up against one another in order to give him a seat at the table, and a smile, half-amused, half-ironical, lighted up his sun-browned, handsome face.
"Don't put yourselves out, mates!" he said carelessly.