"Nay, but—what harm have I—ever—done thee?"
"Begrudged food to a starving wretch!"
"'Twas my dinner and I do need a deal of feeding, I! Lord, how I sweat! Prithee, master, let me up. How have I deserved this?"
"Called me rogue and thief!"
"Aye, that I did—to my woe. Aye, rogue I named thee and likewise—lousy knave—and grieve for't now, I do!"
"And so needs must you sweat awhile!" says I.
And thus I (aloft and at mine ease) and the fat fellow trotting breathless at the wheel we went awhile (and never another word) until, what with fear of losing his goods, what with the mud and heat and sweat, the poor gross fool looked wellnigh spent and all foredone (as I had seen many a better man than he), whereupon I brought the waggon to a stand and reached down to stir him where he lent half-swooning across the wheel.
"Hark'ee, fool, dost know of one called Brandon of Shene hereabouts?"
"Aye, truly—truly!" he gasped. "I do know—Sir Richard—passing well. Ad's bobs, my innards be all shook t'pieces and I do be parched wi' thirst."
"Why then, up with you!" says I, and giving him my hand, aided him back to the driving-seat. Being there, he sighed, groaned and cast a yearning eye towards his wallet.