Humphrey shook Lisle’s hand warmly.
“Th’art no fool that tha remembered my name from my sayin’ it that once. Tha speaks English as well and maybe better than I who was born on a Yorkshire moor,” he said.
Lisle looked at him curiously. “You come from England—from Yorkshire! Why are you here?”
“I’d many a bit o’ gold coin saved from my shearin’ and sheep sellin’. I wanted to see things about the world, to go to foreign parts where there wasn’t just milkin’ and farmin’. I wanted to see a bit o’ life, and I am seein’ it and likely to see more.” Humphrey laughed as he spoke and Lisle laughed, too. All anger toward his rescuer had gone, although he still resented being thought stupid for having shouted for the king, and being carried off by this funny, fat farmer in such an unceremonious way.
Humphrey Trail caught hold of his arm and said:
“Haste tha home, young lad. Keep within tha doors for a spell o’ days till things settle a bit. If it please tha, I’ll see tha to tha door!”
“Thank you, Humphrey Trail, I have no fear of being on the streets. I can go my way quite well alone. I cannot promise you to stay within doors but, though I shall always shout for my king, I will not forget your advice entirely.” Lisle held out his hand and the farmer shook it again warmly, saying:
“Good-by to thee, lad.”
He watched Lisle as he walked on down the narrow street and he muttered to himself, “Th’ lad, th’ proud, odd lad!”
Toward the end of the narrow lanelike street Lisle paused, hesitated, turned back a step or two, paused again, and then went straight on without looking back. Humphrey noticed the action. The boy had something he wanted to say to him.