"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"
"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all my heart!"
Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife holding fast to the other. At sight of us he dropped the weapon and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands in hearty welcome. So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed the ale Godby described our late encounter with great exactness.
"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my hand again, "what might your name be?"
"Martin."
"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"
"None!"
"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place for you or me arter to-day! So what I says is, lets you and me pad it, pal—the road, lad—the good high-road, aha! How say ye, Martin?"
"No!"
"Why no, pal?"