A stranger looked in the back door of The Jugged Hare and tried, with scant success, to catch the attention of someone in the kitchen. “Eh, is there anyone here called Steifann?” he shouted finally.
“I’m Steifann,” declared a thin, grimy youth named Trask, who was slicing a pile of potatoes. He drew himself up to his full, rather unimposing height, thrust out his narrow chest, and swaggered across the room to address the traveler. His mimicry was undeniably accurate. Somehow, by the tilt of his smooth chin, he even managed to suggest Steifann’s thick black beard. “What’s your business with me?” he demanded, in his deepest voice.
The cooks exchanged amused glances, and a serving-girl giggled. The messenger looked doubtfully at them. “I’ve a letter here…”
Trask gestured peremptorily at Walden, the head cook. “Pay the fellow,” he ordered, snatching up the sealed paper and perching on the table among the potato peelings. Walden obeyed, and the man withdrew, shaking his head in confusion.
“Trask, Steifann’ll tear you to shreds if you open that,” scolded the girl, looking over his shoulder eagerly. “It must be from Corson.”
Walden shoved her toward the taproom. “Go fetch him, Giniver, you goose-neither of you brats can read anyway.”
“Oh, I can make this out well enough,” said Trask. “Listen!” He broke the seal at once and held the letter at arm’s length, peering at it shrewdly, though it was upside down. “My darling, sweet lambkin,” he recited, loudly. “I think of you every moment, for I have an ache that gives me no rest, and no one else can ease it. Every night I toss and tumble about, dreaming of your broad shoulders and thick, mighty arms, your wide, warm chest, your manly hips and long, powerful thighs, your-”
“Give me that, you stinking little turd, before I tear your tongue out!” roared Steifann, charging in from the taproom and grabbing Trask by the collar. He seized the letter, and Trask wriggled from his grasp, ducked a blow, and scampered out the back door, snickering.
Steifann glared around at the others, but they made no attempt to hide their laughter. “Well, read it, lambkin,” said Walden. “What’s that worthless layabout Corson got to say?”
“That’s my affair-and I don’t pay you lot good wages to stand about gaping like half-wits! There’s work to do.” Steifann hastily scanned the letter, and everyone gathered around to hear the news, ignoring his bluster. “Nothing but a lot of lies and boasting, as usual… Her handwriting’s a bit better, though,” he said, surprised. As he read further he reddened, cleared his throat, pushed the hair back from his forehead, and finally grinned. “She’ll be home by first frost!” he announced.