The farmer watched the process with an air of grim approval. “Here’s my hand, young man,” he said when Gervase’s countenance had been put in some sort of order. “You are a lad of mettle and a pretty fighter. By God, young fellow, I didn’t think ye kept such a clip as that in your shirt.” The farmer seemed to think it was the finest jest in the world that one so wise and crafty as himself should have been careless enough to lay himself open to such a blow. And, as became one who had enjoyed many triumphs in his youth, he was too good a fellow not to be able to laugh at his own expense. “Tell me, young man, where did ye learn that buffet? A thing like that don’t come by nature.” “I had it of Christopher Tattersall, the Yorkshire champion,” said Gervase modestly. “Did ye so?” said the farmer, with a kind of enthusiasm. “Well, it’s the prettiest buffet I’ve smelt this thirty year.” “I would not have used it had you not forced me to,” said Gervase. “And if I’d known you were keeping it in your sleeve I’d not have held ye so light, young fellow, and you can lay to that.” The farmer spoke with a kind of grim admiration, as became an old warrior who had dealt many a shrewd knock in his time. He bore no malice, either for the rape of his milk or for the blow to his pride. Besides, much was to be forgiven a lad of the true mettle. “If you and your young doxey will step as far as the kitchen,” said he, “perhaps the good wife can find ye a bite o’ breakfast apiece.” In spite of the quantity of the new milk they had consumed Gervase and Anne needed no second invitation. The good wife, to be sure, viewed them at first with little in the way of favor. Certainly neither was very reputable to look upon. Fragments of straw and flakes of dried mud were clinging to their clothes, and their faces had not met soap and water for many hours. Also the face of Gervase was sadly swollen and discolored. Still, in spite of the good wife’s misgivings she gave them a delicious breakfast of collops, hot cakes and ale. Never in their lives had they had such a repast. And the farmer, for all that they had stolen his milk, was fain to heap up their platters with the large generosity of one who has been a first-rate fighter in his youth. “I know not who you be, young fellow,” said he. “You have an air of quality, although you may be none the less a cutthroat for that. Perhaps you are Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. Still, I care not who you are, but by God’s life you are a mighty pretty fighter. Wife, give the young rogue another slice o’ the cake and give some more swipes to the young doxey. Let it never be said that Gideon Partlet knows not how to honor a stout and crafty fighter.”