“She’s in the country,” said the disguised man-servant, who knew that she was then at the Green Dragon, teaching sundry little girls the mysteries of felling and whipping cambric.
“Well, ’tis dry work. Come and have a pint at the Maid’s Head.”
“No, thank you, I don’t care for it. There’s a penny for yours.”
As this was the price of a quart of the best ale, Mr Gibbons pocketed the penny with satisfaction, and forbore to remark censoriously on what he deemed the very singular taste of Mr Percy’s man. He shambled awkwardly off with his waggon, meaning first to put up his horses, and then go and expend his penny in the beverage wherein his soul delighted. His companion gave a low laugh as he turned the key in the door of the cellar.
“No, thank you, Gideon Gibbons,” said he to himself. “It may suit you to sit boozing at the Maid’s Head, telling all you know and guessing much that you don’t: here’s wishing your early muddlement before you get on the subject of this wood! But it won’t do for Guy Fawkes, my fine fellow!”
Note 1. Lord Mordaunt was a trimmer, afraid of being known to be a Papist, and, like most half-hearted people, a great sufferer from the struggle between the conscience and the flesh.