The sermon--if such it could be called--being ended, the two young men went with the crowd through the church door, and into the dim and lofty transept. And what a crowd it was to find in London's principal church! The passage through the building from north to south was a public thoroughfare. Porters, hucksters, errand boys went through with basket and handbarrow, passing across aisles and nave before the very screen that shut in choir and altar. Pedlars stood against the tall pillars, and pushed the sale of their wares. Men bought and sold and bargained as in the churchyard outside or Chepe beyond. Servants stood for hire; bravoes lurked behind the gray stone columns in dark corners, ready to take the price of blood from any hand that offered it. Broken men, needy adventurers, dissolute women--all had their regular stations in the sacred building, which was fair, market, and general rendezvous for every class and trade, legitimate or illegitimate, that had its footing in London Town. Master Jeffreys elbowed his way into the nave and strode down the middle aisle, Morgan at his heels, full of astonishment and healthy country disgust. Any gallant who came strutting along to show his fine feathers received scant courtesy or elbow-room from the indignant forester. He thrust more than one roughly aside, without so much as a "by your leave," and his angry face, huge frame, and athletic build forced the hustled ones to keep civil tongues in their heads. Near the western door a knot of brown-faced, lean-looking men were standing, and one started forward at the sight of Jeffreys, hesitated a moment, and then put forth his hand. "Little Timothy! or tropic suns have blinded my eyes," he cried. Jeffreys scanned the speaker's weather-stained face. "It's not Paignton Rob, surely?" "It's all that's left of him, Timothy." "Thou art shrunken." "And lopped, brother, lopped." "Spain?" "Inquisition." "Indies?" "Vera Cruz. Shall I introduce my friends? We are nigh broken, and not too proud to accept a little charity from a Devon man. Thy heart used not to beat in a niggard's bosom." "It has not changed lodgings, Rob. Wilt know my friend here? This is Master Morgan of Gloucestershire--a good west countrie man, to say the least. He has had his cut at King Philip, and is a friend of our gallant Raleigh." "Then I'm open to love him," cried Paignton Rob, holding out a hand that had lost a thumb. "'Tis a poor grip that fingers can give, Master Morgan," he said apologetically. "The monks of Vera Cruz can best tell thee where little 'thumbkin' is." Johnnie took the proffered hand. "I am proud to know one who has sailed the Western Ocean," he replied. The mariner called up his two friends, who proved thumbless like himself. "Nick Johnson, and Ned his brother, both of Plymouth town. Master Timothy Jeffreys, henchman to Sir Walter Raleigh, and Master Morgan, friend."