I like inns, and I like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs and pewters which were so dear to our forefathers, and I begin this chapter in this way to forestall any possible charges of heresy that my narrative may call forth. I would almost go further, and say that my affection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only myself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. That, I think, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. When it is managed otherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance, besides being contemptible. But, as I have gone so far, I might as well go the length of admitting that I am addicted to the habit of collecting old drinking vessels, and I have allowed the disease to get the upper hand. I cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering glasses and "leather bottels" are displayed without a burning longing to possess them. I like to have these things about me, not merely as ornaments or to drink from, but for—— Well, when I come to think of it, I cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. That is enough to brand me an incurable curio-hunter. Curios and ancient drinking vessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. It is a passion which has become interwoven with my blood and fibre, and I can never again wholly break loose from it.

But all this is by the way; the point is, why do I commence this chapter by talking about such things?

For the reason that in this chapter I am going to tell of a singular adventure in which a "black jack" loomed very solidly.

It happened at Morcombe Lake. I will not write of this place. You must get it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine words; it stirred me in no way. But it shall not be said that Morcombe Lake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the famous Dorset Knob Biscuit, without which no Dorset table is really complete. Mr Moores, who "magics" butter, milk and sugar in his small bake-house and brings forth these golden-brown "Knobs," informs me that his family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred years.

I had walked from Bridport, passing through Chideock, with its venerable-looking church beside the Castle Inn, and coming to Morcombe, where there is a deep-eaved, comfortable, ramshackle, go-as-you-please kind of a little inn, I could hear somebody singing inside. It was a clear, mellow voice, and I listened to the cadences of the song with a thrill of pleasure. It was a humorous trio, and the lonely singer changed his voice for each verse with a largeness and confidence in his vocal powers that quite carried me away. Indeed, it was a song which we all should know, which runs:

Entering, I saw one of the kind of men God loves. He was of middle age, very honest and simple in the face, good-humoured and cheerful. He was sitting before a tall, leather black jack—one of the finest specimens of the old-fashioned leather jugs I have ever seen—quaffing his morning ale from it. He paused from his song and lifted his wide straw hat in a grandiloquent way.

"Good marning, sir! Fine marning's marning! Tez mortel 'ot ta-day," he said, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue eyes. I passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon had already claimed all my attention; I had no eyes for anything else at the moment. I dealt hotly with speculations over the ownership of the flagon. Did it belong to the rustic or the innkeeper? Did they know its value? This and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. As I stood there I dwelt avariciously upon thought of possession. I said to myself: "I must have that flagon. I will buy. Beg it. Steal it, if necessary." The desire to possess it consumed my soul.

"Wantee plaize to take a seat? The cider here be a prime sort, I shuree!" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. He spoke very slowly and, as I have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what only honest men do—looked straight at me when he spoke.

"Surely," I said, and sat down beside him. "Pray excuse me," I continued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, "but that is a remarkable old drinking vessel."

"Thickee there is the ownly wan I ever see like it," said he, holding it up and looking at it with admiration. "Yes, sir, it be a brave good mug, and I have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. It's just a fancy of mine to bring it along with me when I drink. I tellee that mug has been with my folk for two hundred years. Parson says it is just a 'miracle' of an old thing."

"Aha!" said I to myself, "the parson is after it too."

"They tell me," he said, "that it may be worth a pound or two. Well, well! It is an old friend, and I should be loath to part with the cheel, but——"

"But," I repeated eagerly.

"But," he continued, "things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and I have thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can sell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the winter."

"True, true!" I said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. "But you would only get a few shillings for it, I am afraid. Such things have no market value."

"No market value?" he answered. "Well, I suppose I dunnow much 't-al-'bout-et!"

He mused for a few moments. I narrowly watched him out of half-closed eyes—"Oh, yes; I was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough"—and said, very carelessly: "I should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather bottel.' They may look picturesque, but I am certain the beer would taste vile. I have no sympathy with the enthusiast who sang:

However, I would not mind giving you a few shillings for it."

I happened to glance up as I said this. He sat there looking at me with a troubled expression in his blue eyes.

He then said a number of things in broad Dorset, and the "tellees" and "thickees" and "dallees" became unintelligible, but he meant that I could but be joking when I said "a few shillings."

"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind any more," I said. "We will let the matter drop."

Then he stepped up close to me, put the black jack in my hand, and said, with an appealing note in his voice: "Two hundred years in my family, maister. Just say what you've a-mind to give me; only let it be a fair price. I would not be so anxious to sell it, but my rent is a bit behind, and I shall have to sleep with Miss Green——"

"Sleep with Miss Green?" I gasped, somewhat shocked.

"Sleep under the hedge, then," he continued, making the expression clear to me. "Now, you see the fix I'm in, maister."

Then I was ashamed. Deep shame covered me, and I had a great revulsion of feeling. How could I be so niggardly as to beat down this poor fellow's price? Perhaps, after all, it was his only possession of any value at all. I turned the jack over in my hands. It was strong and black and very highly polished with age—and the curves and proportions of it were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked upon it. It was a benediction of a flagon....

I held it up, and said, "How much?"

"Aw! dally-buttons! Take it for two pounds," he said, "you nidden begridge me that."

And he added, in passing, that two pounds made it a kind of gift to me—just a token to signify it had changed hands: it was an act of pure charity on his part.

"Then," I said, "thirty shillings," and he waved his hand about genially, and remarked that it "twidden" be worth his while to stretch out his hand for such a paltry sum.

So then I pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to me and took the money. Thus the bargain was struck.

So this being settled, and I eager for a drink of ale, called the innkeeper, who was in another room. Beer was brought and my friend insisted on paying for it.

I asked him about his wife and children. But I could get very little from him, and that little in a low voice. I felt sorry for him, for I understood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. He seemed as different as one could imagine from the singer I had seen when I entered. He told me that his was a very old family in this place, and his name was Ralph Copplestone. He also quoted the following adage to strengthen his statement:—

Before he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. He set off down the road, and as he passed he began singing:

Finally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. I sat before the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness. The fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour grew dark and grey. He was a strange fellow!

It was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was already full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the evening, that I came down Broad Street into Lyme Regis. In passing, I was attracted by a little curiosity shop. The dusty window was full of all sorts of things—red-heeled slippers, old bits of brass, quaint, twisted candlesticks, blue enamel snuffboxes, jewellery—value and rubbish being mixed in confusion together. And there right in the fore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! It was truly an amazing coincidence! I looked into the doorway, and saw the owner of the shop, a very old gentleman. His face was a network of wrinkles, which time so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a sweetness which even youth lacks. I made up my mind to seek information from him about the flagon. He was examining a piece of china with a magnifying-glass when I entered.

"Good evening—good evening!" he said, putting down the glass, and looking up at me with a smile. "What can I show you, sir?"

The old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly.

"The odd black jack in your window," I said boldly.

The old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling produced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. As I examined it he watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. It was, indeed, a facsimile of the one I had purchased from the rustic.

"It is not really antique. It is a very clever imitation, not more than a few months old," came the old man's voice. He paused, the smile still lighting his face. "A genuine specimen like this one is not to be found anywhere—outside the museums." He lifted his arm with a peculiar gesture that seemed to take in the whole world.

Outwardly I remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the wooden panel of his counter. If I had burst out laughing that moment I cannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was with difficulty that I restrained myself from doing so. Little did he know that I had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere song! Then I told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn.

Suddenly he broke out:

"What was his name?"

"Copplestone—Ralph Copplestone," I replied.

"Why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one," said the old man, shaking his simple head.

"Is that possible?" I said, and I jumped down from the counter where I had perched myself. The strangest sensation came over me. I thought of the honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the tavern-haunter.

The curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly.

"Yes, he imposed upon me, too. He is a very clever rogue. A harness-maker by trade, and all his people before him for three hundred years have been of the same calling. So you see the secret of making a black jack has been handed down from father to son. It is one of the traditions of his family; a knowledge which is mingled with his blood and fibre, so to speak. Such skill is older than five thousand years. He has the spirit of the artist—but the soul of the rogue."

"Why," I said, "then if he is a rogue, then I'm a rogue too, for I knew I was paying him a paltry sum for an article I thought to be worth ten pounds—perhaps twenty."

So I laughed, and I've been laughing gloriously ever since—at myself, at the merry rogue in the inn, at the silly old hypocritical world.

As I passed out of the dim old shop and walked down to the sea it came over me, with a sudden feeling of satisfaction in my soul, that the sun shone on Ralph Copplestone just as joyfully as it did on me, that the good God had endowed him with strong arms and a mighty voice for songs.

"After all," I said to myself, "we are all rogues if we are only scratched deep enough."