"And there, believe me, gossips" (quoth this voice), "as sure as this be beef—aye, and good beef and cooked to a turn, mistress—there's this great, lob-lolly, hectoring Tom Button fast i' the pillory—and by this good ale, a woeful sight, his eyes blacked, his nose a-bleeding, his jerkin torn and a dead cat about his neck, oho—aha! Tom Button—big Tom, fighting Tom so loud o' tongue and ready o' fist—Tom as have cowed so many—there is he fast by the neck and a-groaning, see ye, gossips, loud enough for six, wish I may die else! And the best o' the joke is—the key be gone, as I'm a sinner! So they needs must break the lock to get him out. Big Tom, as have thrashed every man for miles." But here merry voice and laughter ceased and a buxom woman thrust smiling face from the window, and face (like her voice) was kindly when she addressed me:
"What would ye, young master?"
"A little food, mistress," says I, touching my weather-worn hat and pulling it lower over my bruised and swollen features.
"Why come in, master, come in—there be none here but my Roger and Godby the peddler, as knoweth everyone."
So I entered forthwith a small, snug chamber, and seating myself in the darkest corner, acknowledged the salutations of the two men while the good-looking woman, bustling to and fro, soon set before me a fine joint of roast beef with bread and ale, upon which I incontinent fell to.
The two men sat cheek by jowl at the farther end of the table, one a red-faced, lusty fellow, the other, a small, bony man who laughed and ate and ate and laughed and yet contrived to talk all the while, that it was a wonder to behold.
"Was you over to Lamberhurst way, master?" says he to me, all at once.
"Aye!" I nodded, busy with the beef.
"Why then, happen ye saw summat o' the sport they had wi' the big gipsy i' the pillory—him as 'saulted my Lady Brandon and nigh did for her ladyship's coz?"
"Aye," says I again, bending over my platter.