"Good lad!" he grinned. "Ye be a play-actor, for sure?"
"Certainly I am—not! Pray how may I get to Tonbridge?"
"Why, like Gammer Perkins' old sow," he grinned, "one leg afore t' other! I bean't sich a green 'un as ye think."
"Thank you for nothing!" said I sharply.
"Oh, ye can't make a fule of I!" quoth he, grinning.
"No," I retorted, "Nature has done so already!"
This seemed to tickle him mightily for some reason.
"By gum, but you be a rare un, ecod!" he cried, slapping his leg. "Gi'e us some more, lad—I'd rayther laugh than eat any day—sing us a song—step us a jig, will 'ee? Come, I don't mind payin' for 't. I du love a good laugh an' I'll pay. I don't mind spendin' a penny—no b' gum, 'ere's a groat—there y' are! Now tip us a song or jig—come!" Saying which, he tossed the four-penny piece into the road at my feet. Now at this I grew angry beyond words, but he was a large man, so I turned on indignant heel and left him leaning over the gate to stare from me to the despised coin and back again in open-mouthed wonderment.
And now, as I trudged on, my mind was exercised on the question as to whether this part of the world was peopled only by ill-tempered bullies, surly wretches, or bovine fools. So came I to a place where the ways divided and I was deliberating which to follow when I heard a shrill whistling and glancing about, beheld a large woman who talked very fast and angrily to a small man, who whistled extremely loud and shrill, heeding her not in the least. Being come to where I stood, the man paused and stopped his whistling.
"O laddie," quoth he, jerking grimy thumb at his companion, "will ye 'ark to this brimstone witch—been clackin' away all along from Sevenoaks, she 'ave! Gimme a tanner an' she's yourn—say thrippence—say a penny!" At this the woman started to berate him again and he to whistling.