Up came old Jacob Goodyer, and the great wit bade him tell him all the news of the village. Jacob obeyed willingly, and Burley at last fell asleep. The next day it was much the same, only at dinner he had up the brandy bottle, and finished it; and he did _not_ have up Jacob, but he contrived to write. The third day it rained incessantly. "Have you no books, Mrs. Goodyer?" asked poor John Burley. "Oh yes; some that the dear lady left behind her; and perhaps you would like to look at some papers in her own writing?" "No, not the papers--all women scribble, and all scribble the same things. Get me the books." The books were brought up--poetry and essays--John knew them by heart. He looked out on the rain, and at evening the rain had ceased. He rushed to his hat and fled. "Nature, Nature!" he exclaimed when he was out in the air, and hurrying by the dripping hedgerows, "you are not to be coaxed by me! I have jilted you shamefully, I own it; you are a female and unforgiving. I don't complain. You may be very pretty, but you are the stupidest and most tiresome companion that ever I met with. Thank heaven, I am not married to you!" Thus John Burley made his way into town, and paused at the first public-house. Out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he strode towards the heart of London. Now he is in Leicester Square, and he gazes on the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and now from yonder alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps; now through the maze of passages towards St. Martin's he threads his path, and, anticipating an orgy as he nears his favorite haunts, jingles the silver in his pockets; and now the two forms are at his heels. "Hail to thee, O Freedom!" muttered John Burley; "thy dwelling is in cities, and thy palace is the tavern." "In the king's name," quoth a gruff voice; and John Burley feels the horrid and familiar tap on the shoulder. The two bailiffs who dogged have seized their prey. "At whose suit?" asked John Burley, falteringly. "Mr. Cox, the wine-merchant." "Cox! A man to whom I gave a cheque on my bankers not three months ago!" "But it war'nt cashed." "What does that signify?--the intention was the same. A good heart takes the will for the deed. Cox is a monster of ingratitude; and I withdraw my custom." "Sarve him right. Would your honor like a jarvey?" "I would rather spend the money on something else," said John Burley. "Give me your arm, I am not proud. After all, thank heaven, I shall not sleep in the country." And John Burley made a night of it in the Fleet. CHAPTER XII.