“Turn your chairs to, my masters. Ye’ll be welcome to Furze Farm so long as my boots leave their muck upon t’ floor. Be it for me to tell ye for why, sir?” And he looked at John Gore steadily, and jerked a thumb in the supposed direction of the pond. These good people of Furze Farm were so hospitable and so full of honest gratitude that what with the hot liquor, the drying of John Gore’s clothes, and Mr. Pepys’s happy torpor after a big meal, the afternoon was nearly gone before they remembered the homeward road. Farmer Jennifer would have had them stay the night, but Mr. Pepys roused himself to refuse, remembering the comforts of “The Half Moon” and the dimples of Mistress Green Stays. John Gore changed again into his own clothes (though Chris Jennifer would have made him a present of the undergear), and went above to say good-bye to little Will Jennifer, who had been put to bed and left to meditate over this Tale of a Tub. The boy seemed a little shy of John Gore, who dropped a sixpence on the pillow; for when a child has been smacked before strangers, some allowance must be made for outraged pride. “I be sure thee had better bide the night,” said Mrs. Winnie, as they moved out from the kitchen. “Battle be a good nine miles, and in an hour will come sundown.” Mr. Pepys thanked her very heartily, and declined her kindness with proper grace. They would be grateful, however, if Mr. Jennifer would put them upon the road. “Get thee up on Whitefoot, Chris, and ride with the gentlemen to the Three Ashes.” Mr. Jennifer brought a big brown filly from the stable, and set out with no more harness than a halter, and a sack for a saddle. Mrs. Jennifer held the farm-gate open for them, looking up at John Gore very kindly with just a glimmer of tears in her eyes, for though Winnie Jennifer had a strong arm and a rough, brown face, she was as warm-hearted a creature as ever creamed the milk. “If ever it should be that we can serve ye, sir, God see to it, we will not forget.” And John Gore gave her a sweep of his hat, never dreaming for the moment that Winnie Jennifer might one day prove a right dear friend. Mr. Christopher rode with them a mile or more, saying very little, for he was a silent man, and accustomed to leave the talking to his wife. He looked sincerely puzzled by Mr. Pepys’s jokes, tickling his chin with a stumpy forefinger, and grinning occasionally as though wishing to be polite. They reached the Three Ashes, and Mr. Jennifer would have ridden farther with them, but Mr. Pepys, still obstinately sure of his own powers, refused to carry the farmer another furlong. Chris Jennifer gave them some very rambling directions, and after a long, dog-like stare at John Gore—a look that betrayed that he wished to say something graceful and could not—he wished them God-speed, and rode off on the brown filly.