let’s hang him and have done with him.”

“Come on,” said I. “I tell you I’m no Jesuit, but a loyal London ’prentice, on a message for my master to Oxford. If you hold it English that twenty men should set upon one, then—”

“What! a plague on you!” cried my opponent, before I could finish. “Why did you not say what you were before? We have something better to do than hang ’prentices. Get you gone—a stick to your back is what you want, unmannerly dog.”

“Fetch it then,” said I, “for before I leave here I shall finish my supper, and if you like not my company, you may go elsewhere.”

I think they were abashed at that, for they tried to laugh it off, and go on with their carouse. Indeed I think they meant only to frighten me all the while, so perhaps I was a fool to take it all in earnest. However that be, I finished my supper and bade them all good-night; whereat they laughed again. Then, as an hour of daylight remained, I called for my horse and resolved to ride to the next inn and lie there for the night.

I had no cause to complain of the company here (it was the house midway betwixt Maidenhead and Henley, as you come to Bisham), for I had the place to myself. Nor did I wonder at that when I saw the pig-sty of an inn which it was. The landlord, a villainous-looking rogue, demanded to finger my money before he would admit me; and as for my horse, I had to see to him myself, for there was no one about the place to do it for me. However, a night’s lodging was all I wanted, and, having brought away the stable key in my pocket, I pulled my bed across the chamber floor, wrapped myself up in my cloak, and slept like the seven sleepers.

The man eyed me surlily enough in the morning, and told me, if I doubted his honesty, I might go and lie somewhere else next time; which I promised to do, for I guessed when he talked of honesty that he had tried to steal my horse in the night, and being baulked of that, had had it in his mind to rob me. We parted in dudgeon; but I felt well out of that place with my purse in my pocket and my horse under me.

As I rode through Henley, who should overtake me but a troop of horsemen, among whom I recognised not a few of the roysterers who had used me so scurvily at Maidenhead the night before. I drew aside to let them pass, for I wanted none of their company. But one—he who had voted to hang me—came up in a friendly way.

“Come, lad,” said he, “look not glum; our gallants will have their jest.”

“’Tis no jest to call a loyal subject of the Queen a Jesuit, still less to hang him,” said I.

“Well, well,” said he, “next time we’ll call thee Puritan and burn thee—that will make the balance straight. Meanwhile join us, and scour that frown off thy visage,” and he clapped me on the back with a whack which made my nag prick up her ears and jump a foot off the ground.

It took me some time to follow his last advice; but as the fellow seemed honest, though a fool, and he and his comrades made little more pace than I did, I made the best of what I could not help, and ambled beside him at the tail of the troop.

Then he told me that they were going to Wales to get together provisions for an expedition to Ireland, and offered me good pay and plenty of knocks if I would only join them.

“We shall have a merry time of it,” said he, “with a merry man for captain.”

At this I pricked my ears.

“What is his name?” asked I.

“What I say: Captain Merriman, a gallant officer, and a desperate man of war.”

“I know he is that,” said I, with the blood rushing to my temples.

“You know him, then?” said the man, “and you will join us. Ho! ho! Who would thought I could find him such a recruit?”

“Before I serve under your Captain Merriman,” said I, losing temper, “you may do what you promised last night, and hang me up on the nearest tree.”

He stared at me when I said that.

“Why, what mean you?”

“That is my business,” said I, shortly; “but if you would take him a message, you may tell him there is as good duck-weed in Ireland as ever there is in Finsbury Fields, and that Humphrey Dexter says so.”

The man burst into a laugh.

“Did ever I see such blustering roarers as you city ’prentices? I warrant you Captain Merriman will shake in his shoes when I tell him. I do not know if I should not run you through the body for talking thus of a gallant gentleman; but I’ll spare thee, Humphrey, this time: ’tis too hot to fight.”

“Not for me,” said I, “if that is what you mean.”

He laughed again at that.

“Come along,” said he, clapping me again on the back, “join us, and you shall tell Captain Merriman all about the duck-weed yourself; and a proud man he will be, I warrant you.”

I was sorry now I had bragged, for nothing but contempt came from it, as indeed, had I been a little wiser, I might have known. So I said no more about the matter, and let my comrade talk, which he did to his heart’s content, telling me of the battles he had fought in, and the spoils he had taken, and the triumphs he had seen.

Thus talking, we beguiled the time till we came to where we had to part company; for the troop went by way of Abingdon, whereas I, following Master Udal’s directions, continued on the east bank of the river to Oxford. He bade me think over what he had said about joining the wars, and told me where he might be found during the next week or two.

“Ask for Tom Price,” said he; “they all know me. And on the day you’re Lord Mayor of London, which I take it is not far hence, find me a humble seat below the salt at your lordship’s table; and so farewell.”

I felt it lonely enough after my company had left; besides which, I clean lost my way, and was forced at last to seek the river and guide myself by that. Heavy work it was; for the river’s bank was swampy and often impassable with bushes and woods, so that I had to go miles out of my way to circumvent them, leading my horse by the hand. At last, when I hardly knew where I was, night fell; and worn-out with weariness and hunger, I made for the first house I could see—which chanced to be an inn—and resolved to go no farther that night.

Had I gone on, I am certain of one thing, which is, that this veritable history would never have been written. For I should not then have met the wild person who, just as I stood unharnessing my nag at the door, dashed past me and flung himself into the house.