“The which, sith thou wert born in July, makes thee now of two and twenty years,” Father makes answer.
“I believe so much, Sir,” saith Walter, that looked somewhat diverted at this beginning.
“And thy wage at this time, from my Lord of Oxenford, is sixteen pound by the year?” (Note 1.)
“It is so, Sir,” quoth Wat.
“And what reckonest thy costs to be?”
“In good sooth, Sir, I have not reckoned,” saith he.
“Go to—make a guess.”
Wat did seem diseased thereat, and fiddled with his chain. At the last (Father keeping silence) he saith, looking up, with a flush of his brow—
“To speak truth, Sir, I dare not.”
“Right, my lad,” saith Father. “Speak the truth, and let come of it what will. But, in very deed, we must come to it, Wat. This matter is like those wounds that ’tis no good to heal ere they be probed. Nor knew I ever a chirurgeon to use the probe without hurting of his patient. Howbeit, Wat, I will not hurt thee more than is need. Tell me, dost thou think that all thy costs, of whatsoever kind, should go into two hundred pound by the year?”