"Come, Mr. Gravity from Head to Foot, but from neither Head nor Foot to the Heart," said he, "deliver what you have, in a trice."
The "old, grave gentleman" heaved a deep sigh, to the hazard of losing several buttons off his waistcoat. "All I have is two shillings. You would not take that from a poor man."
"Pooh!" rejoined the "Golden Farmer," "I have not the faith to believe you, for you seem by your manner and habit to be a man of better circumstances than you pretend; therefore, open your budget, or else I shall fall foul about your house."
"Dear sir," wailed the old gentleman, "you can't be so barbarous as to rob an old man. What! have you no pity, religion, or compassion in you? Have you no conscience? You can have no respect for your own body and soul, which must certainly be in a miserable case, if you follow these unlawful courses."
"D——n you," rejoined Davis, "don't talk of age or barbarity to me, for I show neither pity nor compassion to any. What! talk of conscience to me! I have no more of that dull commodity than you have; nor do I allow my soul and body to be governed by religion, but by interest; therefore, deliver what you have, before this pistol makes you repent your obstinacy."
There was no help for it, and the rent found its way back from landlord to tenant.
Again the "Golden Farmer" is found in a new setting; this time upon the Oxford Road. The particularly evil character of this road was enlarged upon in 1671 by Richard Brockenden, writing to Sir Richard Paston, and describing what he called "a new set of highwaymen," who robbed every night, unlike the old hands, who evidently rested frequently from their labours to enjoy the fruits of their shy industry, and must have resembled Sir W. S. Gilbert's lawless but light-hearted gang, who sang:
We spend our nights on damp straw and squalid hay
When trade is not particularly brisk;
But now and then we take a little holiday,