“For that matter, uncle,” replied the traveller, “I shall consult my own needs and conveniences.  Meantime I wish to give the supper and sleeping cup to those good townsmen who are not too proud to remember Mike Lambourne, the tapster’s boy.  If you will let me have entertainment for my money, so; if not, it is but a short two minutes’ walk to the Hare and Tabor, and I trust our neighbours will not grudge going thus far with me.”

“Nay, Mike,” replied his uncle, “as eighteen years have gone over thy head, and I trust thou art somewhat amended in thy conditions, thou shalt not leave my house at this hour, and shalt e’en have whatever in reason you list to call for.  But I would I knew that that purse of thine, which thou vapourest of, were as well come by as it seems well filled.”

“Here is an infidel for you, my good neighbours!” said Lambourne, again appealing to the audience.  “Here’s a fellow will rip up his kinsman’s follies of a good score of years’ standing.  And for the gold, why, sirs, I have been where it grew, and was to be had for the gathering.  In the New World have I been, man—­in the Eldorado, where urchins play at cherry-pit with diamonds, and country wenches thread rubies for necklaces, instead of rowan-tree berries; where the pantiles are made of pure gold, and the paving-stones of virgin silver.”

“By my credit, friend Mike,” said young Laurence Goldthred, the cutting mercer of Abingdon, “that were a likely coast to trade to.  And what may lawns, cypruses, and ribands fetch, where gold is so plenty?”

“Oh, the profit were unutterable,” replied Lambourne, “especially when a handsome young merchant bears the pack himself; for the ladies of that clime are bona-robas, and being themselves somewhat sunburnt, they catch fire like tinder at a fresh complexion like thine, with a head of hair inclining to be red.”

“I would I might trade thither,” said the mercer, chuckling.

“Why, and so thou mayest,” said Michael—­“that is, if thou art the same brisk boy who was partner with me at robbing the Abbot’s orchard.  ’Tis but a little touch of alchemy to decoct thy house and land into ready money, and that ready money into a tall ship, with sails, anchors, cordage, and all things conforming; then clap thy warehouse of goods under hatches, put fifty good fellows on deck, with myself to command them, and so hoist topsails, and hey for the New World!”

“Thou hast taught him a secret, kinsman,” said Giles Gosling, “to decoct, an that be the word, his pound into a penny and his webs into a thread.—­Take a fool’s advice, neighbour Goldthred.  Tempt not the sea, for she is a devourer.  Let cards and cockatrices do their worst, thy father’s bales may bide a banging for a year or two ere thou comest to the Spital; but the sea hath a bottomless appetite,—­she would swallow the wealth of Lombard Street in a morning, as easily as I would a poached egg and a cup of clary.  And for my