Risk it for the bisket," Mr. Finsburne said, "but I 'most think he's a-goin' to do it, if nothin' don't turn up." "It is a wonder if he keeps it at all," Mrs. Finsburne remarked, looking at the man at the bar. "It's a wonder he don't have a drop too much," her husband retorted. "He's a bit off the line too. But the bisket must be doin' him good, or he wouldn't have come." The man at the bar had been drinking and talking loudly. He talked louder yet; his face became red, his thick hands shook, his eyes seemed on fire; he leaned forward, and gave a loud laugh, then leaned back and drank. A waiter with folded arms watched him with an unconcerned look. "We'll be seeing him right after dinner, I 'most believe," Mr. Finsburne said to himself, as he paid the landlady for their week's board. John Finsburne had been born and brought up in the country, and knew all about such things. He was also the proprietor of the tavern, and made no secret of his preference for good, hearty drinkers. After a little the man got up, staggered to the door, and walked off. "If he keeps on at that pace," Mr. Finsburne said, "he'll be off in the road and be struck by a cart before night." His wife looked rather nervous. "He'll find his way home," he said confidently, "if 'tis dark. We ought to have got a bit of a light for him." For the first few minutes it was impossible to speak. Every word or sound was taken up, and the noise made a great booming echo in the room. Gradually the noise seemed to get louder, as if by degrees, and the booming echo grew louder, too, until it was almost deafening. It seemed as if it might go on forever, though each time they had a glass in their hands. It seemed as if it could never end; and if anything suddenly broke the spell it seemed as if there were just a chance of the noise and echo being permanent, and might break out again with fearful result. At first Mrs. Finsburne sat almost paralyzed, with the half-empty glass in her hand. Then her nervousness seemed to increase, until at last it caused her to feel very ill. When her husband got up she could not at once get out of her chair, and had some difficulty in rising. "You go and lie down," she said; "I will sit here and see if I can find out anything." "I'll come with you," Mr. Finsburne said, and walked toward the landlord, holding his wife's arm. He also felt a little ill. "I'll go in and get a light for him," he said to himself; "that's the only thing that can help him now. The bisket's all wrong." He went up to a box of lucifer matches and got one. The barmaid came to his side. "I thought I would give a light to that man if he came back," he said. The woman watched his face as he said it, and read trouble there, as in a book. She had been in the bar for some time, and saw the way of it. Mr. Finsburne, in a few words, told her what had happened, and that she must keep the bar for a little, and be ready to serve the man when he returned, as there was no other place he would be likely to come to. She understood. She left the bar, and put some plates on the table. She then went to the door, and looking out through the glass, beckoned to a woman standing at the opposite door, to come in. Mrs. Finsburne, however, was not to be comforted. She looked pale and feverish, and sat with her hands covering her face. "I wish we had got no luggage," she said. "I don't like coming here with all that." "Why don't you mind it?" her husband said crossly. "I don't mind anything when I think of the pain it may cause. I do wish we had left the luggage." The landlord now appeared at the door with some plates and a napkin. He could read trouble in the wife's face, and took her orders. She left the room and went to the door to wait. In a few minutes the landlord appeared with a tray, on which was a plate of bisket, some bread and cheese, and a little porter. The barmaid had kept her eye on the woman at the door. She saw her signal, and gave one of those sidelong glances which show how keen a lookout the eyes have been, as she passed. Mr. Finsburne followed her. "He's in the right of it," he said to himself, "this man has had a drop too much; but it don't matter for that. It'll all go off again when he gets home, and never be missed--there won't be any more trouble for a while." "Did you see the one as spoke to the man?" he asked of the barmaid, and the woman nodded. He took a piece of the cake and put it on the tray. "You keep that, and give it to him as he comes in. Don't you say a word about it." He left the room again, and went to the door. As he turned toward the stairs he saw the man approaching. He came so quickly that the landlord lost his footing and nearly fell. It was John Finsburne who caught him, but he was close to the table, and the man got a hand on the edge as he went by, and just steadied himself by it. Then he took the bisket and ate it as he staggered on. "You'd better take that back," Mr. Finsburne said, looking in with a suspicious frown. "He's not able for such as that yet." "You have done enough for him," Mrs. Finsburne said, as she took it and carried it to the door. "You know well he won't mind us in the least," Mr. Finsburne said. The woman took it as if she had not heard him, and he closed the door, then went up to his wife and poured her out a glass of brandy. It was a long glass, with a round head to it, a drink which is seldom seen now in taverns. The landlord, who had watched all this, drew the cork with his thumb and forefinger. It was a peculiar cork. The hole for drawing it was one long corking-rod, and half the hole for the air had to be cut out. It was like putting a candle into a glass of tallow. In the olden times this sort of corking-rod was used. The landlord had got himself mixed up with a family of corking-rods. He put it down on the counter with the glass, and went into his bedroom. He got his lantern from a shelf, which he shut as carefully as if it was a diamond bracelet. The lantern was new, and of a new and peculiar kind. There was a screw at the end to go into the lantern, so that it could be opened or shut as required. It had been a dark, rainy evening, and it looked very wet in the streets. Mrs. Finsburne had finished her brandy, and when she had helped her husband to some poteen--which the landlord brought at once, saying that it would help to give the man a taste--she spoke to him of what a dreary night it was, and of what a long journey they must have come in all that rain. Her husband said it had been a good long pull, and the landlord could keep the brandy glass. "We had a bit of a wind to start with," he said, "and it was after that we came. I wish there was some one to know, and that we were able to give the man a bit of a glass before he goes, for I do not believe he would go off so easily if it was only a wet night." Then the woman looked up at him, and her eyes showed her thoughts. They made the most wistful of all things; she was thinking of the man she saw, and wondering if he was still in the road outside, and if he was, whether he might not need their help. She looked again at the landlord and thought of his corking-rod, with the rain on it, and how it must be heavy with rain water.