The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke, to
insinuate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm never
laughed, and, indeed, maintained a mastiff-like gravity, and even
surliness of aspect, yet he now and then rewarded mine host with a
token of approbation; which, though nothing more nor less than a kind
of grunt, yet delighted the landlord more than a broad laugh from a
poorer man.
"This will be a rough night for the money-diggers," said mine host, as
a gust of wind howled round the house, and rattled at the windows.
"What, are they at their works again?" said an English half-pay
captain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn.
"Aye, are they," said the landlord, "and well may they be. They've had
luck of late. They say a great pot of money has been dug up in the
field, just behind Stuyvesant's orchard. Folks think it must have been
buried there in old times by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor."
"Fudge!" said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small portion of
water to a bottom of brandy.
