"You are for a journey?" says I.
He nodded, and his colour rose, but he frowned. "I am for Effingham," said he.
"So am I," said I, "at least I pass that way," which was not so, for I was for Reading, and had meant to go by Guildford. Yet I was in no mind to risk an encounter with Grubbe and his lambs, who were bound for Guildford, if what the innkeeper said was true, and the way by Effingham would serve me as well as another. He looked pleased, and says he,—
"Why, we will travel in company," says he.
"With all my heart," said I.
The traps had disappeared upon the Guildford road in a mist of dust, and we jogged on comfortably till we came to cross-roads, where we turned away for Slinfold, reaching that village nearby two of the clock. Here my companion must slake his thirst, and I was nothing loth. He had a gentlemanly air about him for all his rustic habit, and very pleasantly, if with some awkwardness, offered me of a bottle.
"You mind me," said I, drinking to him, for I liked the fellow, "of a lad that I knew that was in the wars."
"Was you in the wars?" says he, eagerly.
I had meant the wars of the road, which indeed are as perilous and as venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.
"I served in Flanders," said I.