“I must back to my master in London,” said I.
“The printer!” said he, scornfully. “He is thy master no more; thou hast entered my service.”
This staggered me. For much as I loved him, it had never occurred to me to bind myself to a penniless runaway.
“Pardon me, sir,” said I. “I am bound to the printer by an oath. Besides, I know not yet what your service is.”
“My service,” said he, “is to be free, and to put wrong right.”
“’Tis a noble service,” said I, “but it fills no stomachs.”
“You ’prentices are all stomach,” said he, sadly. “But ’tis always so. No man that ever I met believed in me yet. I must fight my battles alone.”
This cut me to the quick.
“Not so,” said I. “Last night I swore to be your friend. It was a mad oath, I know; but you shall see if I do not observe it. But till two years are past, I am bound by an oath to my master the printer, and him I must serve. Then, I am with you.”
This I thought softened him.