irs of eyes followed his movements. He, however, had no
attention to spare. He bent down, lit his spill in the flame, and
deliberately lighted his pipe. The tobacco rose above the rim of the
bowl like a head of ale in a tankard. Wogan, still holding the burning
spill in his right hand, pressed down the tobacco with the little finger
of his left, and lighted the pipe again. By this time his spill had
burned down to his fingers. He dropped the end into the fire and walked
back to his seat. The five pairs of eyes again turned as he turned. He
stumbled at a crack in the floor, fell against the table with a clatter
of his sword, and rolled noisily into his seat. When he sat down a
careful observer might have noticed that his pistol was now at full
cock.

He had barely seated himself when the polite man, who had come first
hot and short of breath into the room, crossed the floor and leaning
over the table said with a smile and the gentlest voice, "I think, sir,
you ought to know that we are all very poor men."

"I, too," replied Wogan, "am an Irishman."

The polite man leaned farther across the table; his voice became
wheedling in its suavity. "I think you ought to know that we are all
very poor men."

"The repetition of the remark," said Wogan, "argues certainly a poverty
of ideas."

"We wish to become less poor."

"It is an aspiration which has pushed many men to creditable feats."

"You can help us."

"My prayers are at your disposal," said Wogan.

"By more than your prayers;" and he added in a tone of apology, "there
are five of us."

"Then I have a guinea apiece for you," and Wogan thrust the table a
little away from him to search his pockets. It also gave him more play.

"We do not want your money. You have a letter which we can coin."

Wogan smiled.

"There, sir, you are wrong."

The polite man waved the statement aside. "A letter from Prince
Sobieski," said he.

"I had such a letter a minute ago, but I lit my pipe with it under your
nose."

The polite man stepped back; his four companions started to their feet.

The servant from Ohlau cried out with an oath, "It's a lie."

Wogan shrugged his shoulders and crossed his legs.

"Here's a fine world," said he. "A damned rag of a lackey gives a
gentleman the lie."

"You will give me the letter," said the polite man, coming round the
table. He held his right hand behind his back.

"You can sweep up the ashes from the hearth," said Wogan, who made