“Softly, good friend!” interposed John. “You would not call the King’s Grace a robber?”
“The King’s Grace is the King’s Grace, and may do as it liketh him,” said Dr Thorpe, a little testily; “’tis yonder rascally Council whereof I speak, and in especial that cheating knave of Warwick. I would we had my Lord of Somerset back, for all he is not a Lutheran, but a Gospeller. He never thrust his hand into my pocket o’ this fashion.”
“Ah!” replied John, laughing, “touch a man’s pocket, and how he crieth apace!”
“A child newly burnt dreadeth the fire, Jack,” answered the old man. “This is not the first time we have had the King’s coin pulled down. I am as true a man to the King as any here; but I have taken no oath to that dotipole (blockhead) of Warwick; and if he play this game once too oft, he may find he hath fished and caught a frog.”
“I count,” suggested John, soberly, “that my Lord of Warwick’s testers shall not pass for any more than ours.”
“What matters that to him, lad,” cried Dr Thorpe, “when he can put his hand into the King’s treasury, and draw it out full of rose nobles? The scurvy rogue! I would he were hanged!”
John laid his hand very gently and lovingly on the old man’s shoulder.
“Would you truly that, friend?” said he, softly.
“A man meaneth not alway every thing he saith,” replied Dr Thorpe, somewhat ashamed. “Bring me not to bar, prithee, for every word, when I am heated.”
“Dear old friend,” John answered, softly, “we shall stand at one Bar for every word.”