"Why, as to that," said I, over my shoulder, "I neither eat nor drink with a man who doubts my word." "Meanin' those forty shillin'?" "Precisely!" "Well," said he, twisting his whisker with a thoughtful air, "if you could manage to mak' it twenty—or even twenty-five, I might mak' some shift to believe it—though 'twould be a strain, but forty!—no, damme, I can't swaller that!" "Then, neither can I swallow your beef and ale," said I. "Wheer be goin'?" he inquired, rising, and following as I made for the gate. "To the end of the road," I answered. "Then you be goin' pretty fur—that theer road leads to the sea." "Why, then I'm going to the sea," said I. "What to do?" "I haven't the ghost of an idea," I returned. "Can you work?" "Yes," said I. "Can ye thatch a rick?" "No," said I. "Shear a sheep?" "No," said I. "Guide a plough?" "No," said I. "Shoe a 'oss?" "No," said I. "Then ye can't work—Lord love me, wheer 'ave 'e been?" "At a university," said I. "Where, master?" "At a place warranted to turn one out a highly educated incompetent," I explained. "Why, I don't hold wi' eddication nor book-larnin', myself, master. Here I be wi' a good farm, an' money in the bank, an' can't write my own name," said the farmer. "And here am I, a 'first' in 'Litterae Humaniores,' selling my waistcoat that I may eat," said I. Being come to the gate of the yard, I paused. "There is one favor you might grant me," said I. "As what, master?" "Five minutes under the pump yonder, and a clean towel." The farmer nodded, and crossing to one of the outhouses, presently returned with a towel. And, resting the towel upon the pump-head, he seized the handle, and sent a jet of clear, cool water over my head, and face, and hands. "You've got a tidy, sizeable arm," said he, as I dried myself vigorously, "likewise a good strong back an' shoulders; theer's the makin's of a man in you as might do summat—say in the plough or smithin' way, but it's easy to see as you're a gentleman, more's the pity, an' won't. Hows'ever, sir, if you've a mind to a cut o' good beef, an' a mug o' fine ale—say the word." "First," said I, "do you believe it was forty shillings yes or no?" The farmer twisted his whisker, and stared very hard at the spout of the pump. "Tell 'ee what," said he at length, "mak' it thirty, an' I give ye my Bible oath to do the best wi' it I can." "Then I must needs seek my breakfast at the nearest inn," said I. "An' that is the 'Old Cock,' a mile an' a half nearer Tonbridge." "Then the sooner I start the better," said I, "for I'm mightily sharp set." "Why, as to that," said he, busy with his whisker again, "I might stretch a pint or two an' call it—thirty-five, at a pinch—what d'ye say?" "Why, I say 'good morning,' and many of them!" And, opening the gate, I started off down the road at a brisk pace. Now, as I went, it began to rain. CHAPTER IX IN WHICH I STUMBLE UPON AN AFFAIR OF HONOR.