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there at the dead hour of the night： until they shuddered at the
thought of the dark rooms upstairs； yet loved to hear the wind
moan too； and hoped it would continue bravely。 From time to time
these happy indoor people stopped to listen； or one held up his
finger and cried ‘Hark！’ and then； above the rumbling in the
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chimney； and the fast pattering on the glass； was heard a wailing；
rushing sound； which shook the walls as though a giant’s hand
were on them； then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen； then such
a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad； and then； with a
lengthened howl； the waves of wind swept on； and left a moment’s
interval of rest。
Cheerily； though there were none abroad to see it； shone the
Maypole light that evening。 Blessings on the red—deep； ruby；
glowing red—old curtain of the window； blending into one rich
stream of brightness； fire and candle； meat； drink； and company；
and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors！
Within； what carpet like its crunching sand； what music merry as
its crackling logs； what perfume like its kitchen’s dainty breath；
what weather genial as its hearty warmth！ Blessings on the old
house； how sturdily it stood！ How did the vexed wind chafe and
roar about its stalwart roof； how did it pant and strive with its wide
chimneys； which still poured forth from their hospitable throats；
great clouds of smoke； and puffed defiance in its face； how； above
all； did it drive and rattle at the casement； emulous to extinguish
that cheerful glow； which would not be put down and seemed the
brighter for the conflict！
The profusion too； the rich and lavish bounty； of that goodly
tavern！ It was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its
spacious hearth； in the tiles which paved and compassed it； five
hundred flickering fires burnt brightly also。 It was not enough that
one red curtain shut the wild night out； and shed its cheerful
influence on the room。 In every saucepan lid； and candlestick； and
vessel of copper； brass； or tin that hung upon the walls； were
countless ruddy hangings； flashing and gleaming with every
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motion of the blaze； and offering； let the eye wander where it
might； interminable vistas of the same rich colour。 The old oak
wainscoting； the beams； the chairs； the seats； reflected it in a deep；
dull glimmer。 There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of
the drinkers； in their buttons； in their liquor； in the pipes they
smoked。
Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years
before； with his eyes on the eternal boiler； and had sat there since
the clock struck eight； giving no other signs of life than breathing
with a loud and constant snore （though he was wide awake）； and
from time to time putting his glass to his lips； or knocking the
ashes out of his pipe； and filling it anew。 It was now half…past ten。
Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were his companions； as of old； and
for two mortal hours and a half； none of the company had
pronounced one word。
Whether people； by dint of sitting together in the same place
and the same relative positions； and doing exactly the same things
for a great many years； acquire a sixth sense； or some unknown
power of influencing each other which serves them in its stead； is
a question for philosophy to settle。 But certain it is that old John
Willet； Mr Parkes； and Mr Cobb； were one and all firmly of opinion
that they were very jolly companions—rather choice spirits than
otherwise； that they looked at each other every now and then as if
there were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on among them；
that no man considered himself or his neighbour by any means
silent； and that each of them nodded occasionally when he caught
the eye of another； as if he would say； ‘You have expressed
yourself extremely well； sir； in relation to that sentiment； and I
quite agree with you。’
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The room was so very warm； the tobacco so very good； and the
fire so very soothing； that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze； but
as he had perfectly acquired； by dint of long habit； the art of
smoking in his sleep； and as his breathing was pretty much the
same； awake or asleep； saving that in the latter case he sometimes
experienced a slight difficulty in respiration （such as a carpenter
meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot）； neither of his
companions was aware of the circumstance； until he met with one
of these impediments and was obliged to try again。
‘Johnny’s dropped off；’ said Mr Parkes in a whisper。
‘Fast as a top；’ said Mr Cobb。
Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another
knot—one of surpassing obduracy—which bade fair to throw him
into convulsions； but which he got over at last without waking； by
an effort quite superhuman。
‘He sleeps uncommon hard；’ said Mr Cobb。
Mr Parkes； who was possibly a hard…sleeper himself； replied
with some disdain； ‘Not a bit on it；’ and directed his eyes towards a
handbill pasted over the chimney…piece； which was decorated at
the top with a woodcut representing a youth of tender years
running away very fast； with a bundle over his shoulder at the end
of a stick； and—to carry out the idea—a finger…post and a
milestone beside him。 Mr Cobb likewise turned his eyes in the
same direction； and surveyed the placard as if that were the first
time he had ever beheld it。 Now； this was a document which Mr
Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son Joseph；
acquainting