* Observe that I merely imagine Sir John Falstaff to have
said he had visited Spain. The annals of that country afford
no trace of his presence at any period of history.
“Nay, sir—no further off than Clements’ Inn. I was reading the law when you were page to Sir Thomas Mowbray—father to—”
“Him whose father’s son I now march against. The chances of war have so willed it. By our Lady, I know the trick of your face—well.—Nay, if you will an’ it be another of the same.—‘Tis excellent, i’ faith. And you have thriven well in your calling, Master——?”
“Doit—Thomas Doit, to serve you, Sir John.”
“The name was at my tongue’s end. Of Oxford, as I think?”
“Of Stafford, sir.”
“Stafford, I would have said. A new health to you, Master Doit. Why we are boys again. I would I needed a lawyer for your sake. But a trusty knave (no offence to the calling, sir) cares well for my estate—and to displace an old servant—”
“Nay, sir. I have enough—enough, sir. The world has dealt kindly by me. I have a snug home, with a crust and flagon for a friend. My boys and maidens are well cared for. I labour now but for pastime.”
“Say you so, Master—Joit. We must be better acquainted. And yet that can hardly be with old friends like us.”
“You have grown great since then, Sir John.”