“What do you, young man,” he asked in a high thin voice, “cumbering my gate with those nags of yours? Would you sell that mail you have on the pack-horse? If so I do not deal in such stuff, though it seems good of its kind. So get on with it elsewhere.”
“Nay, sir,” I answered, “I have naught to sell who in this hive of traders seek one bee and cannot find him.”
“Hive of traders! Truly the great merchants of the Cheap would be honoured. Have they stung you, then, already, young bumpkin from the countryside, for such I write you down? But what bee do you seek? Stay, now, let me guess. Is it a certain old knave named John Grimmer, who trades in gold and jewels and other precious things and who, if he had his deserts, should be jail?”
“Aye, aye, that’s the man,” I said.
“Surely he also will be honoured,” exclaimed the old fellow with a cackle. “He’s a friend of mine and I will tell him the jest.”
“If you would tell me where to find him it would be more seasonable.”
“All in good time. But first, young sir, where did you get that fine armour? If you stole it, it should be better hid.”
“Stole it!” I began in wrath. “Am I a London chapman——?”
“I think not, though you may be before all is done, for who knows what vile tricks Fortune will play us? Well, if you did not steal it, mayhap you slew the wearer and are a murderer, for I see black blood on the steel.”
“Murderer!” I gasped.