be, I lay my oath—beef, d'ye see, an' a mossel—"

"Nay," says I gathering up the viands, "here's my breakfast."

"Is it?" says he, gaping.

"It is! Would ye deny it?"

"Not for a moment!" says he, eyeing my staff and the gleaming knife in my belt. "Lordy, no! Only how was I to know 'twere yourn, master—when my darter cut it for her very own feyther—"

"We live and we learn!" says I, turning away. "What might your name be?"

"Full-o'-j'y Tucker, master."

"Why then, Full-of-joy, though my gain be your loss take comfort in that 'tis more blessed to give than receive. Moreover, though you lack a dinner you have a daughter and a roof to shelter you and I neither one nor other—a poor, hungry rogue. Methinks of the two of us you have the better of life."

"Why, look'ee now, master," says he, scratching his shaven chin, "since you've got your breakfus' surely, if you're minded t' step along t' my cottage down t' lane, I can give ye a jug of good ale to wash it down." Now as he spoke thus, seeing the sturdy manliness of him I dropped my staff and reached out my hand.

"Full-of-joy," says I, "a starving man must eat by hook or crook, but if you'll give your honest hand to a thief—there's mine!"

The man stared from my hand to my face, his wide mouth curved, then rubbing hand on snowy smock he grasped my fingers and wrung them heartily—a clean and honest grip, such as I had not known for many a long day.

"Will 'ee come, master?" he questioned. I shook my head. Quoth I:

"You have a daughter and I'm no fit company for a good, sweet maid—nor ever shall be for that matter!" So saying, I dropped his hand and turning, strode away down the road, his dinner beneath my arm; and when at last I glanced back I saw him standing where I had left him, staring after me chin in hand. Presently, turning in at a gate beside the way, I sat down beneath a hedge in the warm, level beams of the sun and fell to eating with huge appetite and (stolen though it was) never tasted food more sweet. I was thus rapturously employed when I heard a dolorous whine and, starting about, beheld a ragged creature on the opposite side of the hedge who glared at the food with haggard eyes and reached out claw-like hands in supplication.

"O for the love o' Christ, spare a crust!" she wailed. "Spare a bite to a grannam as dieth o' hunger. O sweet Jesu—a mouthful to a poor soul as do be pined for lack o' food—"

"Off!" cries I fiercely, "What know you of hunger? Away, hag!" and I reached for my staff, whereupon she wailed and wept, and clawing her dismal rags about her, crept away moaning.

But now while my jaws champed ravenously, the food had lost its savour; wherefore I cursed and choked and, springing to my feet, made after her, but, seeing me follow at speed, she cried out in fear and, striving to flee from me, sank on feeble knees.

"Old hag!" quoth I, "Be damned for spoiling a hungry man's appetite and robbing him of what he was at pains to rob for himself!" Then I thrust the well-filled napkin into her clutching fingers and hasted away, but her raptured cry followed me as I went.

I trudged on slow and heavy through the mud, being very weary for lack of sleep and mightily down cast, heedless of gladsome morn and the fair, fresh world about me, conscious but of my own most miserable estate; insomuch that I presently sank down on the grass by the road and, with heavy head bowed between my hands, gave myself up to black despond.

But now as I sat thus, very sick and sorrowful, I heard a sound of wheels and plodding hoofs drawing slowly near, and lifting my head at last, espied a great wain piled high with fragrant hay whereon the driver sprawled asleep, a great fat fellow whose snores rose above the jingle of harness and creak of wheels. Now hearkening to his snoring, beholding him so gross and full-fed (and I starving!!) my sadness gave place to sudden, hot anger and, as the waggon lumbered by, I swung myself up behind, and clambering over the hay, raised my staff, minded to drub the fellow into wakefulness; but even then I stayed the blow, for I spied a wallet that hung to the driving-seat, a large wallet of plump and inviting aspect. Reaching it down I opened it forthwith and found therein a new-baked loaf, a roast capon delicately browned and a jar of small beer. And now, couched luxuriously among the hay, I fell to work (tooth and nail) and though I ate in voracious haste, never before or since have I tasted aught so delicate and savoury as that stolen fowl. I was yet busied with what remained of the carcass when the fat fellow choked in his snoring, sighed, grunted, propped himself on lazy elbow and, catching sight of me, fell a-gaping. So whiles he watched open-mouthed, I finished what remained of the capon and tossed the bones over the hedge.

"Ecod!" quoth he faintly. "O, ecod—my dinner!" As for me, having my mouth full, I spake not. "Ad's bobs!" says he, "A rascally, robbing thief of the roads!"

"Even so!" I nodded and took a long draught of his beer.

"A-eating and a-drinking of a honest man's dinner, by the Lord!" says he, clenching fat fists. "O ecod—a hell-fire rogue—a very lousy, scurvy dog as shall be carted and whipped and set in Sir Richard's new pillory!" At this, being engaged with the bread, I reached out my foot and kicked him (very featly) in the belly; whereat he gasped and growing thoughtful, dolefully watched me make an end.