“He-here they are ready,” said the peddler. “Th-they do but wait.”
Presently they met Hobbe Smith, and he, when he saw Calote, grinned and capered, and cried out, “Ho, mistress!” very joyously. And then, “News?” Whereupon other heads were turned to look.
“I am come from Yorkshire, down the east coast,” said Calote. “At Norwich we have many friends. At Bury Saint Edmunds let the monks look to 't. At Cambridge and Saint Albans they wait the word.”
“All this is known,” answered Hobbe, and turned to walk with them.
“Tell me of my father,” said Calote. “Is he well?”
“Yea, well. I cannot make out thy father; he 's a riddle. No man ought to be more rejoiced than he, of”—Hobbe left his sentence hanging and began a new one: “Yet he pulleth a long face.”
“And my mother 's well?”
“Ay, Kitte 's well.”
“And thou, Hobbe?”
He laughed and grew red. “I 'm married, mistress. Thou wert so long away. There 's a little Hobbe.”