ovial, and never above his business. His
fathers had owned the inn before him, and "he never wished to be a
better man than his father, nor a worse either, for the matter of that,"
as he would say. All day long, when not engaged with his customers
indoors, he was to be seen at the door of his inn, with his apron girt
around him, and a "yard of clay" at his lips, straining his eyes down
the long cross-roads for the first glimpse of a customer.

Often after gazing long and intently into the distance he would turn
back with a sigh, knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it, take a deep
draught of his own home-brewed ale, then, if none of his customers
required anything, and the affairs of his household permitted it, he
would sally out again. This time, perhaps, his eyes would be greeted by
the sight of a solitary wayfarer, or, better still, the stage-coach.
Then it was that the honest landlord's face would brighten up, as it was
certain to bring him some of the "big-wigs" from town. He would rub his
hands and chuckle, while Dame Hearty would begin to bustle about to
welcome the fresh arrivals. It was not often, however, that the
"Headless Lady" was entirely deserted.

A small clique or brotherhood, known as "The Wonder Club," had been
nightly in the habit of assembling here for years, and this served to
bring grist to the mill. Some of the eminent men from the neighbouring
village, among whom were the doctor, the lawyer, an antiquary, an
analytical chemist, and others, had formed among themselves a club,
which was to consist only of very choice spirits, like themselves, and
if any guest were introduced among them, it was only to be with a letter
of introduction and the full consent of all parties. By these strict
rules they hoped to keep the club select. A room at the inn was set
apart for them, into which no one not belonging to the club ever
presumed to enter, unless it was the landlord, who would be called every
now and then to replenish the bowl, and whom sometimes the guests of
the club would "draw out," as it was whispered in the village that the
landlord of the "Headless Lady" knew a rare lot of stories, he did; also
how to tell 'em, too, my word! but these he generally reserved for his
more intimate customers. One strict law of the club that we have not yet
mentioned was that no guest invited was to be a "business man." Should a
commercial traveller ever have the hardihood to enter the sacred
precincts of the club,