He jumped round as my step rung on the keystone, and I saw a pleasant sunburnt

boyish face.

 

“Good evening to you,” he said gravely. “It’s a fine night for the road.”

 

The smell of peat smoke and of some savoury roast floated to me from the house.

 

“Is that place an inn?” I asked.

 

“At your service,” he said politely. “I am the landlord, sir, and I hope you

will stay the night, for to tell you the truth I have had no company for a

week.”

 

I pulled myself up on the parapet of the bridge and filled my pipe. I began to

detect an ally.

 

“You’re young to be an innkeeper,” I said.

 

“My father died a year ago and left me the business. I live there with my

grandmother. It’s a slow job for a young man, and it wasn’t my choice of

profession.”

 

“Which was?”