How I Swore to the Blood-Brotherhood

I remember the moon was very bright as, reaching the end of a grassy lane (or rather cart-track) I saw before me a small, snug-seeming tavern with a board over the door, whereon were the words: YE PECK OF MALT BY JOEL BYM.

And looking the place over, from trim, white steps before the door to trim thatched roof, I marvelled at its air of prosperity; for here it stood, so far removed from road and bye-road, so apparently away from all habitation, and so lost and hid by trees (it standing within a little copse) that it was great wonder any customer should ever find his way hither.

The place was very quiet, not a light showed anywhere and the door was fast shut, which was nothing strange, for the hour was late. Stepping up to the door I knocked loudly thereon with my cudgel, at first without effect, but having repeated the summons, a voice from within hailed me gruffly: "Who knocks?"

"'The Faithful Friend!'" says I. At this, the door swung suddenly open and a lanthorn was thrust into my face, whereupon I fell back a step, dazzled; then gradually, beyond this glare, I made out a dark shape blocking the doorway, a great fellow, so prodigiously hairy of head and face that little was there to see of features, save two round eyes and a great, hooked nose.

"And who d'ye seek, Faithful Friend?" says he.