"Ay," says he, in a grumbling, surly voice, "I would the country were in hell."
"Why, so 'twill be in good time," said I, cheerfully; and then to the man that came, "Fetch me two quarts well laced with gin," says I, "for to keep the chill o' the night and the fear o' death out."
The coachman laughed a little stoutly, for he knew that this was his invitation.
"Whence come you then?" said I, delivering him the pot that was fetched out.
He threw an arm out. "Lewes," said he, "under charge with a tobyman that was for chains yonder."
He nodded towards the downs and drank. I cast my eyes up and the loom of the hill just t'other side of the village was black and ominous.
"Oh," says I, "he hangs there?"
"At the top of London road," says he, dipping his nose again. "There stands the gallows, where the roads cross, and near the gate."
"Gallows Gate," said I, laughing. "Well, 'twas a merry job enough."
"Ay," says he, "but by this we might ha' been far towards London Town, whither most of us are already gone. But 'twas not his meaning. He must come back with the Lewes sheriff and drink him farewell."