The coachman laughed a little shortly, for he knew that this was his invitation.
“Whence come you then?” said I, delivering him the pot that was fetched out.
He threw an arm out. “Lewes,” said he, “under charge with a tobyman that was for chains yonder.”
He nodded toward the downs and drank. I cast my eyes up and the loom of the hill just t’other side of the village was black and ominous.
“Oh,” says I, “he hangs there?”
“At the top of London Road,” says he, dipping his nose again. “There stands the gallows, where the roads cross and near the Gate.”
“Gallows Gate,” said I, laughing. “Well, ’twas a merry job enough.”
“Aye,” says he. “But by this we might ha’ been far toward London Town, whither most of us are already gone. But ’twas not his wish. He must come back with the Lewes sheriff and drink him farewell.”
“Leaving a poor likely young man such as yourself to starve of cold and a empty belly here,” said I. “Well, I would learn such a one manners in your place, and you shall have another tankard of dogs-nose for your pains,” says I, whereat I called out the innkeeper again, but took care that he had my share of the gin in addition to his own. By that time he was garrulous, and had lost his caution, so, keeping him in talk a little and dragging his wits along from point to point, I presently called to him.
“Come down,” said I, “and stamp your feet. ’Twill warm you without as the liquor within.” And he did as I had suggested without demur.