“Doth he make no choice of companions?” questioned Tabbard, noticing that some of the group looked misplaced anywhere but dangling from a gibbet’s arm.
“Not he,” said Gyves, “according to his stories, he has messed with the worst of the cut-throats of the Straits, kept by the side of clapperdoggers on their rounds, learned all the slang of the purlieus of Cheapside, and would as lief hobnob with a ruffler as with a nobleman or parish priest.”
“Hath he good sense?”
“The very best, I think, for I heard the Justice say that he wrote plays of the people, and must mingle with them to learn their ways.”
By this time they had approached a vacant table, and as Tabbard seated himself with pretended difficulty, he said, “Now sit you there; my friend, and have one cup with me before you venture out.”
Gyves required no second invitation.
“’Tis a bad night to hunt the highways for clapperdoggers,” said he, as he dropped into a chair, and pulling his whiskers glanced around the room with an air of familiarity as great as that of a chained mastiff in his own kennel.
“Is it a beggar you are after?” asked Tabbard with a forced air of unconcern.
“Not exactly, and I correct my expression,” returned Gyves, “but one even less harmful.”
“Some poor devil who has failed to attend church for a Sunday or two, eh?” [[note 34].]