"Somewhat past seventeen, sir."
"Just the age of our Roger," said the lady.
"And what's your name?"
At this I hesitated. I could not be more than thirty miles from Shrewsbury, and if I told my name perchance it might travel back, and I was in no mind to have my mischances retailed in the town. The gentleman saw my hesitation.
"Well, well," he said, "no matter for that. You have run away, eh?"
"No, sir. I have no relatives, and I came with full consent of my friends."
"And what think you to do at Bristowe? Have you friends there?"
"No, sir. I purposed to find employment on a ship."
"The old story!" quoth the gentleman with a grunt. Then, with a shrewd look at me, he said: "Contra mercator, novem jactantibus austris."
"Militia est potior," I said, capping his tag from Flaccus' first satire, without reflecting whereto he was luring me.