Outside, the sound of horse's hooves (or hoofs) hammering on the hard highway, the road a ribbon of moonlight over the snow-filled moor.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" comes a scream and, because of the horse's sudden stop on the sheet ice, through the door is thrown a gent in knee-breeches, riding boots, woolen cape, and all that eighteenth-century highwayman get-up. He is immediately followed by a skidding horse with three white stocking, a white blaze on his head, and sporting a Western saddle with silver conchos.

As the door splinters under the impact of horse and rider, there is a long, drawn-out cry of "AAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWDSHIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT, Silver!"

The rider picks himself up from the floor, ties his horse to a convenient ceiling post, puts his tricorn hat back upon his head, adjusts his sword, brace of pistols and silken mask, and staggers to the bar.

"Good publican, a rug of bot huttered mum...er, just gimme a big mug of run, please."