ver did!"

"Gregory swears to it."

"Gregory's a liar!"

"Which is true enough--so he be!" nodded the landlord.

"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife. "But Lord, young master, they
do ha' used ye ill--your poor face, all bruised and swole it be!"

"Which it be!" nodded Roger. "Likewise cut! Which be ill for 'ee
though--like Godby here--I won't say but what I moughtn't ha' took a
heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to heave things at
such times, d'ye see?"

"Very natural!" says I.

"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open the
wicket-gate?"

"To get in!"

"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the prigging
lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? Speak plain, pal,
all's bowmon!"

"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor
scamperer."

"Mum, pal, mum! I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no love for
the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee. A peddler be I and well
liked--wish I may swing else! Aye, well beloved is kind Godby,
specially by wenches and childer--aha, many's the yard o' riband and
lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread men, pigs and elephants,
very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind Godby, and all for love! And
yet, plague and perish it--here's me warned off my pitch, here's me wi'
the damned catchpolls on my heels, and all along o' this same Gregory
Bragg--rot him!"

"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to, you are
a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly heart inside
you."

"How so?" he questioned, his bright eyes all of a twinkle. "How so, my
bully boy?"

"That pannikin of water."

"Which you didn't get, my cock's-body lad!"

"Which you were man enough to bring me."

"Which Tom Button did ye out of!"

"Which you knocked him down for!"

"Which is Gospel-true, Roger and Cicely, 'twas a neat throw. Tom
bumped heavy--aye, uncommon flat were Tom, let me eat worms else!"

"For all of the which," says I, cutting more beef, "I ask you now to
drink a stoup of ale with me."

"Wi' all my heart!" cries the peddler.

"Then," says I, laying my money on the table, "let us all drink in
fellowship, for ale, like fellowship, is a goodly thing and good things
be rare in this world!"

"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.

"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.

"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the pe