"No, I tell you," replied the keeper, gruffly, "it is past twelve. Look, there is my clock."
"Ay, friend, but thy clock, like thyself, doesn't speak the truth. Like its master, it is a little too hasty. I assure thee my watch is right, for I just now compared it by the steeple-house clock in the town."
"I tell you," replied the keeper, angrily, "I've nothing to do with your watch; I go by my clock, and there it is."
"Well, I think thou art too exact with me, my friend."
"Will you pay me or not?" roared the keeper; "you go through often enough in the devil's name without paying."
"Gently, gently, my friend," replied Johnny; "there is the money: and it's really after twelve o'clock, thou says?"
"Well, very well; then, for the next twenty-four hours I can go through again without paying?"
"To be sure; everybody knows that."
"Very well, then I now bid thee farewell." And with that, Johnny Darbyshire jogged on. The gatekeeper, chuckling at having at last extorted a double toll from the shrewd Quaker, went to bed, not on that quiet road expecting further disturbance till towards daylight; but, just as he was about to pop into bed, he heard some one ride up and cry, "Gate!"