THE PACKMAN AND THE INNKEEPER

There was a packman was down upon his uppers, for he had sold much of his stock, and the rest had been spoiled beyond saving when he fell while crossing a dark burn. In the same burn he had lost his purse so he had no money to buy new stock, and he was far from his own country where his friends would have helped him.

All he had left was his great pack. He dried it out and went weary down the road. He came to an inn by the way, and from inside came the smell of meat puddings and milk puddings and fig puddings and fruit puddings and meal puddings and the packman's head swam with hunger and he was drunk on the smell of the puddings. He had not a penny to pay his way, nor anything to barter with, but he went in, sat at a table, and ordered a meat pudding and a meal pudding followed by a fig pudding.

All the puddings were fine and tasty, but the meat pudding was remarkable strong in taste, and had the smack of something that was not mutton or beef, and for certain there were no pigs in that part of the land, and chicken or any gamebird had no such taste. The packman sat to think what the taste was and where he had eaten such before.

The innkeeper, a surly burly man of poor manners, came and demanded payment, but the packman put him off a while by calling for a flag of yill. The ale was of abominable quality, and that reminded him of what the taste was. He had last had such poor ale far down into the low land, where the people would eat anything that was dead enough, and in that inn they had offered as a delicacy steaks of horseflesh.

The packman went out behind the inn on a call of pressing business, and took care to root about in the upturned earthen pans lying there. He had good fortune, for he found under one a horse's tail, not that long cut off. He took the tail under his jacket and went back in to the public room, which was quite filled with people. The innkeeper came again to him and demanded payment.

"Come, brother," said the packman, "do not press me so. Do you not remember that last time I was by here I left goods for you to retail for me." He stressed the word re-tail knowingly, and opened the jacket enough so only the innkeeper could see the horse's tail. True enough, the man was shocked and afraid, for the people of that place would have roasted him on his own kitchen for feeding them horsemeat.

"Do you tell me that?" said the innman. "I had forgot."

"Yes, I remember there was a purse made from the feathers of fantail pigeons."

"Indeed, so there was. It sold for little, enough for the cost of your meal."

"A poor bargain," said the packman. "I hope the black dresscoat did better, the one with long coattails?"

"Yes, yes, it paid the cost of your ale, and a bed for the night."

The packman's voice grew louder, and every tail word was like a lash across the innkeeper's back.

"Was that all? Then what of the gift box inlaid with ivory and worked with finest dovetail joints?"

"There is as much as two pounds left behind the clock on the gantry for me to pay you on the sale of that."

"The telltale clock, that curtails a long night's pleasure, eh? Has it no more than that for me?"

"Perhaps it has as much as five pounds?"

"Perhaps. I have news for you, brought by the way, of your friend. You know the one, he of the ratstail beard, he has won his court case, of the entail, although he had not time to tell all the details, just the outline of the tale, but that might amuse your company this night."

"Enough, I do not wish that tale brought out here. How much would you say I owe you in total?"

The packman left next morning with enough cash to fill his pack with new selling stock.