V
Where three roads from the neighboring villages met, there was formed a great open space in which a thousand or more persons could easily find room without crowding. Here had gathered together the people, eager to see and hear their beloved leader, John Ball.
While Ball was resting at the tavern, after his long tramp, the crowd amused itself welcoming vociferously the late comers, cracking jokes, and singing songs. A tall fellow made his way among them, crying:—
"Busk ye, busk ye, John Ball hath rung your bell. God do bote, for now is tyme."
"By my troth, then, it will be heard from one end of England to the other!" exclaimed a powerfully built, fierce-looking dyer, whose hands, stained a purplish red by his trade, added to his sanguinary appearance.
"'Tis fairly so. We shall yet all be free men," agreed a mild-mannered, lanky youth, with a slight halt in his speech.
"Here come John the cobbler, and Will the tinker, both as sober as owls," called out a youngster.
"Ho, John, John, thy lass will turn a cold front on thee, and thou smooth not the frown on thine ugly phiz!" cried one who was blue with the cold, and danced about first on one foot and then the other to keep his blood circulating.
A short distance from him, a long-nosed, peaked-faced chap, a bit unsteady on his legs, was haranguing a group.