"Which is true enough—so he be!" nodded the landlord.
"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife. "But Lord, young master, they do ha' used ye ill—your poor face, all bruised and swole it be!"
"Which it be!" nodded Roger. "Likewise cut! Which be ill for 'ee though—like Godby here—I won't say but what I moughtn't ha' took a heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to heave things at such times, d'ye see?"
"Very natural!" says I.
"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open the wicket-gate?"
"To get in!"
"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the prigging lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? Speak plain, pal, all's bowmon!"
"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor scamperer."
"Mum, pal, mum! I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no love for the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee. A peddler be I and well liked—wish I may swing else! Aye, well beloved is kind Godby, specially by wenches and childer—aha, many's the yard o' riband and lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread men, pigs and elephants, very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind Godby, and all for love! And yet, plague and perish it—here's me warned off my pitch, here's me wi' the damned catchpolls on my heels, and all along o' this same Gregory Bragg—rot him!"
"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to, you are a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly heart inside you."