“’Tis not often so,” he returned; “you know the saying, Thomas, that the breeches you make yourself are unusual easy for quick running to the tavern, and uncommon broad and thick in the seat, that you may sit on our ale-bench by the hour with small wear to them.” The crowd laughed yet more heartily at this, though many had heard the same stock jest before. “But now, to tell truth, Tom, ye’re the very first from the gardens.” He lowered his voice. “These be soldiers, as you see. Some arrived at Portsmouth from the Low Countries last month, and already must sally forth again, most madly, methinks, on the perilous Virginia voyage.” The breeches-maker glanced about him for the first time with a close attention to the room’s occupants. For the most part they were unknown to him, several wearing the unmistakable air of fighting men. But his scrutiny was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of others more familiar in appearance. Leading the new arrivals into the tap-room came a short, nervous man, very thin both of body and voice. As he saw Watkins, his face, which had been eager, showed disappointment. “Faugh!” he ejaculated, turning to Groat; “Tom’s told you.” The host looked as surprised as a very bland, corpulent person can. “Nay, Peter, what’s he told me?” The expression of Peter Sharp, needle-maker by trade, news-monger by preference, grew eager again. “That’s like Tom,” he declared. “Some observation concerning the ale-tap instead of a good story, I’ll warrant.” He turned to his fellow-guests, with the exception of those who had entered behind him. “Were none of ye there,” he asked, “to see a most astounding bear-baiting?” The soldiers looked up with interest from their games. Marlowe and Rouse in particular showed a keen attention to the speaker. “Alack!” whispered Rouse, “I knew he’d do it.” But his companion, all ears for what was coming, made a cautious gesture commanding silence, and said nothing.