“Like your father,” he said hopelessly. “But your father lived to learn better, which I doubt you will do.”
“He got a stomach affliction,” I devilled, “so that one mouthful of spirits turned it outside in. It were wisdom not to drink when one’s tank will not hold the drink.”
While we talked Pons was gathering to my bedside my clothes for the day.
“Drink on, my master,” he answered. “It won’t hurt you. You’ll die with a sound stomach.”
“You mean mine is an iron-lined stomach?” I wilfully misunderstood him.
“I mean—” he began with a quick peevishness, then broke off as he realized my teasing and with a pout of his withered lips draped my new sable cloak upon a chair-back. “Eight hundred ducats,” he sneered. “A thousand goats and a hundred fat oxen in a coat to keep you warm. A score of farms on my gentleman’s fine back.”
“And in that a hundred fine farms, with a castle or two thrown in, to say nothing, perhaps, of a palace,” I said, reaching out my hand and touching the rapier which he was just in the act of depositing on the chair.
“So your father won with his good right arm,” Pons retorted. “But what your father won he held.”
Here Pons paused to hold up to scorn my new scarlet satin doublet—a wondrous thing of which I had been extravagant.
“Sixty ducats for that,” Pons indicted. “Your father’d have seen all the tailors and Jews of Christendom roasting in hell before he’d a-paid such a price.”