"In course thou canst.

But thy master's money may bide in a's pouch.

Get thy saddles off, lad, and come in; 'tis a smittle night for rheumatics." I helped Dick to take off the saddles, and, having hobbled our horses with stirrup-leathers, we went in.
Our little old friend was the hut-keeper, as I saw at a glance.

The shepherd was sitting on a block before the fire, in his shirt, smoking his pipe and warming his legs preparatory to turning in.
I understood him in a moment, as I then thought (though I was much deceived).

A short, wiry, blackheaded man, with a cunning face--convict all over.