“The most pay when they go,” said the thatcher.
“I know. But accidents happen. Best take it now, friend!”
“An you will, I will,” said the thatcher and took the money. He looked the other over. “The gentry do not often come here. They go to the Green Wreath.”
“I am not gentry. Perhaps,” said Osmund, “it is right to tell you that I am not popular where I go.”
The thatcher gazed still, then he spoke and he seemed to quote some saying that he had heard. “‘A simple, proper-looking man riding a white horse.’—Is your name Osmund?”
“Yes. Richard Osmund.”
The thatcher, who was a slow, deep man, studied the situation. “If strange doctrines killed men I reckon that England would be a desert to-day!... Now, George Fox. I was at Reading, and I heard him witnessing before what he called the steeple-house. When he was done they beat and stoned him and took him away to gaol.... But I didn’t taste poison in his words. I thought there was some honey in them.”
“So there is.—I will put White Faithful in the stable then.”
“It is market day in Great Meadow. There will be a many about.”
“It happens sometimes to me as it does to George Fox. If it happens so in Great Meadow, keep White Faithful, until you hear from me. If you hear no more, keep him and use him, treating him well.”