"Well, Turnditch," he said, "you know everything now, or nothing." Then, dropping lightly on his knee, he turned gaily to me, and said, "Always plunder the Egyptian, dead or alive."
He rifled the spy's pockets with the easy indifference of an expert, singing as he turned them out:
"The priest calls the lawyer a cheat;
The lawyer beknaves the divine;
And the statesman because he's so great,
Thinks his trade is as honest as mine."
He stopped his singing and, tossing a well-stuffed leather bag up and down in his hand, said, "There's really no objection to virtue when the jade is not her own reward. Chunk! chunk! There's alchemy for you! Half an ounce of lead into half a pound of gold!"
He stowed the bag in his pocket, jumped on his mare, and together we walked our horses to the turnpike, where we halted side by side, our horses' heads to their respective destinations.
"Sir," said I, holding out my hand, "I am greatly in your debt. My name is Oliver Wheatman, of the Hanyards, Staffordshire. May I have the pleasure of learning yours?"
He took my hand, looked at me intently, with his grey eyes very thoughtful and steady, and then said quietly, "Samuel Nixon, Bachelor of Arts, sometime Demy of Magdalen College, Oxford."
"Commonly called 'Swift Nicks,'" I added, smiling.
"Right first time," he cried gleefully, and shot off like an arrow towards Manchester.
So Nance Lousely had not got her pinnerfull of guineas after all.