Kenilworth
Page 204"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
"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,
"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."
"Thou wilt win no more Hollands, think, on such wager, friend Mike,"
said the mercer; "for the sulky swain, Tony Foster, rails at thee all to
nought, and swears you shall ne'er darken his doors again, for that your
oaths are enough to blow the roof off a Christian man's dwelling."
"Doth he say so, the mincing, hypocritical miser?" vociferated
Lambourne. "Why, then, he shall come down and receive my commands here,
this blessed night, under my uncle's roof! And I will ring him such a
black sanctus, that he shall think the devil hath him by the skirts for
"Nay, now the pottle-pot is uppermost, with a witness!" said the mercer.
"Tony Foster obey thy whistle! Alas! good Mike, go sleep--go sleep."
"I tell thee what, thou thin-faced gull," said Michael Lambourne, in
high chafe, "I will wager thee fifty angels against the first five
shelves of thy shop, numbering upward from the false light, with all
that is on them, that I make Tony Foster come down to this public-house
before we have finished three rounds."