jacket, linen breeches, and green apron, half within and half without a door, which appeared to descend to an outer cellar.
“Here is a gentleman asks if you draw good ale,” continued the hostler.
“Beshrew my heart else,” answered the tapster, “since there are but four miles betwixt us and Oxford.—Marry, if my ale did not convince the heads of the scholars, they would soon convince my pate with the pewter flagon.”
“Call you that Oxford logic?” said the stranger, who had now quitted the rein of his horse, and was advancing towards the inn-door, when he was encountered by the goodly form of Giles Gosling himself.
“Is it logic you talk of, Sir Guest?” said the host; “why, then, have at you with a downright consequence—
And to fire with the sack.’”
“Amen! with all my heart, my good host,” said the stranger; “let it be a quart of your best Canaries, and give me your good help to drink it.”
“Nay, you are but in your accidence yet, Sir Traveller, if you call on your host for help for such a sipping matter as a quart of sack—were it a gallon, you might lack some neighbourly aid at my hand, and yet call yourself a toper.”
“Fear me not,” said the guest, “I will do my devoir as becomes a man who finds himself within five miles of Oxford; for I am not come from the
