"Yes," says I, "Dick Ryder, who is mightily sorry that he ever set forth to do any kindness to a ninny like you."
"Ay," says a voice behind me, "'tis Dick Ryder for sure, young woman."
I turned at the sound, and on the steps, descending from the tavern, was Timothy Grubbe, with the face of a trap behind him.
"Dick Ryder," says he, with a grin, "I arrest you in the name of His Majesty for the robbery of one Samuel Hogg, on Turnham Green, last night."
"Is that you, Timothy?" said I, for I never minded the wretch. "Why, come in and welcome. You come in the nick of time to prevent murder."
"Why, I see you have been very merry," says he, with his leer.
I tapped the vintner on the shoulder. "Here is a party," I said, "that will drink my health. I beg you to open a bottle of your best for these good friends of mine. How many be you, Timothy?" I asked.
"Call it three, Dick," says he with his tongue in his cheek.
"Make it two bottles, host," said I cheerily.
The vintner, with his mouth open, now coming to his sober senses, stared at the visitors and at me; but in obedience to my command, he moved slowly towards the tap-room door, where Grubbe and the trap stood. I followed him, and had, out of the tail of my eye, a glimpse of the wench—struck dumb and terrified.