“Well, then, so you shall.”
He was about to open his pack when a noise of footsteps was heard descending the stairs, and in another moment the broad form of Farmer Wilmot filled the doorway.
“Here, my lads,” said he. “It isn’t often I give you a treat; but as I’ve sold my whate and got a good price for it, and as, moreover, this be my son’s birthday, I’ll give ’ee somthing to drink his health.”
He placed several pieces of silver in the girl’s hand, and said—
“Give it ’em out in the sixpenny, my little maid, and then what they do drink will do ’em good.”
The rustics gave a loud cheer and thanked him again and again for his generosity.
He appeared to be well known to all present, with the exception of Peace, who never remembered to have seen him before.
“Good-by, lads, and don’t mek beasts on yourselves. Ale, in moderation, won’t hurt anyone; but too much on it is good for no man. Good-night to all.”
And with these words the honest farmer mounted his gray mare, which was standing at the door of the hostelry, and trotted off in company with two friends, similarly mounted.
“I be downright glad he’s sold his whate,” said one of the rustics. “He aint all eyes and ears like some measters, and he knows how to let a poor man off his first fault.”