“Fegs, Sir Richard, we are half afeard. With your good leave—”
“Hillo, Tony,” cried Amyas, “who was ever afeard yet with Sir Richard's good leave?”
“What, has the fellow a tail or horns?”
“Massy no: but I be afeard of treason for your honor; for the fellow is pinked all over in heathen patterns, and as brown as a filbert; and a tall roog, a very strong roog, sir, and a foreigner too, and a mighty staff with him. I expect him to be a manner of Jesuit, or wild Irish, sir; and indeed the grooms have no stomach to handle him, nor the dogs neither, or he had been under the pump before now, for they that saw him coming up the hill swear that he had fire coming out of his mouth.”
“Fire out of his mouth?” said Sir Richard. “The men are drunk.”
“Pinked all over? He must be a sailor,” said Amyas; “let me out and see the fellow, and if he needs putting forth—”
“Why, I dare say he is not so big but what he will go into thy pocket. So go, lad, while I finish my writing.”
Amyas went out, and at the back door, leaning on his staff, stood a tall, raw-boned, ragged man, “pinked all over,” as the steward had said.
“Hillo, lad!” quoth Amyas. “Before we come to talk, thou wilt please to lay down that Plymouth cloak of thine.” And he pointed to the cudgel, which among West-country mariners usually bore that name.
“I'll warrant,” said the old steward, “that where he found his cloak he found purse not far off.”