"Here's a nut to crack," he was saying; "who can answer me this: What do the priests prefer over Luke, Mark, and the Book?"
"Nay, then, not I," snarled one who was in no mood for conundrums, "not I, seeing that I cannot boast thy wit, Simon Lackless."
Lackless grinned broadly and placed one lean finger to his long nose, waggishly. "Why, 'tis fair enough," he said; "the priests do prefer Lucre to Luke, Marks to Mark, and the Bag to the Book."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the people about him, passing the joke along from one to the other.
But Lackless had not overlooked the sneer; he now pointed to the speaker and called out in a loud voice, "Poor Wat! We must forgive him, seeing he is so meek at home and must vent his cooped-up spleen on some one!"
Wat sought another part of the crowd, discomfited.
"I wot a good saw," exclaimed an old man, leaning heavily on a staff; "but there, do not ask me for it, for my sides ache with laughing a'ready."
But they would not let him off. "Come now, let's have it," they begged. Some laughed outright from sympathy with the old man's merriment.
"What think ye, what think ye—oh, Lord!" he spluttered. "What think ye they do say at Rome?"