“That is but reason,” replied Varney, “so that your betters are served before you.”
“Good,” said Lambourne; “and it only remains to be said, that if the law and I quarrel, my patron must bear me out, for that is a chief point.”
“Reason again,” said Varney, “if the quarrel hath happened in your master's service.”
“For the wage and so forth, I say nothing,” proceeded Lambourne; “it is the secret guerdon that I must live by.”
“Never fear,” said Varney; “thou shalt have clothes and spending money to ruffle it with the best of thy degree, for thou goest to a household where you have gold, as they say, by the eye.”
“That jumps all with my humour,” replied Michael Lambourne; “and it only remains that you tell me my master's name.”
“My name is Master Richard Varney,” answered his companion.
“But I mean,” said Lambourne, “the name of the noble lord to whose service you are to prefer me.”
“How, knave, art thou too good to call me master?” said Varney hastily; “I would have thee bold to others, but not saucy to me.”
“I crave your worship's pardon,” said Lambourne, “but you seemed familiar with Anthony Foster; now I am familiar with Anthony myself.”