presently up to The Place, and give this letter to Master Foster, and say that I, his ingle, Michael Lambourne, pray to speak with him at mine uncle's castle here, upon business of grave import.--Away with thee, child, for it is now sundown, and the wretch goeth to bed with the birds to save mutton-suet--faugh!"
Shortly after this messenger was dispatched--an interval which was spent in drinking and buffoonery--he returned with the answer that Master Foster was coming presently.
"Won, won!" said Lambourne, darting on the stakes.
"Not till he comes, if you please," said the mercer, interfering.
"Why, 'sblood, he is at the threshold," replied Michael.--"What said he, boy?"
"If it please your worship," answered the messenger, "he looked out of window, with a musquetoon in his hand, and when I delivered your errand, which I did with fear and trembling, he said, with a vinegar aspect, that your worship might be gone to the infernal regions."
"Or to hell, I suppose," said Lambourne--"it is there he disposes of all that are not of the congregation."
"Even so," said the boy; "I used the other phrase as being the more poetical."
"An ingenious youth," said Michael; "shalt have a drop to whet thy poetical whistle. And what said Foster next?"
"He called me back," answered th
