bourne, looking round him, “little thought whose keeping they were to fall into.”
“Nor what yeoman’s service they were to do me,” quoth Anthony Foster—“the cook hath used them for scouring his pewter, and the groom hath had nought else to clean my boots with this many a month past.”
“And yet,” said Lambourne, “I have been in cities where such learned commodities would have been deemed too good for such offices.”
“Pshaw, pshaw,” answered Foster, “they are Popish trash, every one of them,—private studies of the mumping old Abbot of Abingdon. The-nineteenthly of a pure gospel sermon were worth a cartload of such rakings of the kennel of Rome.”
“Gad-a-mercy, Master Tony Fire-the-Fagot!” said Lambourne, by way of reply.
Foster scowled darkly at him, as he replied; “Hark ye, friend Mike; forget that name, and the passage which it relates to, if yow would not have our newly-revived comradeship die a sudden and a violent death.”
“Why,” said Michael Lambourne, “you were wont to glory in the share yow had in the death of the two old heretical bishops.”
“That,” said his comrade, “was while I was in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity, and applies not to my walk or my ways, now that I am called forth into the lists. Mr Melchisedek Maultext compared my misfortune in that matter to that of the Apostle Paul, who kept the clothes of the witnesses who stoned Saint Stephen. He held forth
