“Excellent, excellent,” replied Lambourne; “why, thy limber bit of a thigh, thrust through that bunch of slashed buckram and tiffany, shows like a housewife's distaff when the flax is half spun off!”
“Said I not so?” said the mercer, whose shallow brain was now overflowed in his turn; “where, then, where be this rascal pedlar?—there was a pedlar here but now, methinks.—Mine host, where the foul fiend is this pedlar?”
“Where wise men should be, Master Goldthred,” replied Giles Gosling; “even shut up in his private chamber, telling over the sales of to-day, and preparing for the custom of to-morrow.”
“Hang him, a mechanical chuff!” said the mercer; “but for shame, it were a good deed to ease him of his wares—a set of peddling knaves, who stroll through the land, and hurt the established trader. There are good fellows in Berkshire yet, mine host—your pedlar may be met withal on Maiden Castle.”
“Ay,” replied mine host, laughing, “and he who meets him may meet his match—the pedlar is a tall man.”
“Is he?” said Goldthred.
“Is he?” replied the host; “ay, by cock and pie is he—the very pedlar he who raddled Robin Hood so tightly, as the song says,—
'Now Robin Hood drew his sword so good,
The pedlar drew his brand,
And he hath raddled him, Robin Hood,
Till he neither could see nor stand.'”
“Hang him, foul scroyle, let him pass,” said the mercer; “if he be such a one, there were small worship to be won upon him.—And now tell me, Mike—my honest Mike, how wears the Hollands you won of me?”
“Why, well, as you may see, Master Goldthred,” answered Mike; “I will bestow a pot on thee for the handsel.—Fill the flagon, Master Tapster.”