* * * * *

As the canon's yeoman finished his tale of the false alchemist we
entered a little town, Bob-up-and-down, on the Canterbury high-road.
Our Host began at once to joke at the expense of the Cook, who was
lagging behind the party, half asleep on his horse. "Wake him,
somebody," he said. "See how he sleeps! He'll fall into the mud in a
moment! Wake him, and to punish him we'll make him tell an extra
tale. Rouse yourself, Cook--were you awake all last night or are you
drunk?"

The Cook answered thickly, "Sir Host, I do not know why, but my head
feels so heavy that I'd rather go to sleep than be given a gallon of
the best ale in Eastcheap!" At that the Steward spoke up, "Well, Sir
Host, if it will help the Cook, I'll tell a tale now and so let him
off his task. Look at him--he's either ill or very drunk! Just see
how his head wags!" He and the others laughed. The Cook was angry. He
glared at the Steward and tried to answer but could not, and in his
excitement he fell from his horse.

There he lay, stretched on the dirty road, and we had much ado to
lift him up to the saddle again. "You've no right to make game of a
man in that way, sir," said Harry Bailey to the Steward. "You might
need _his_ help one day." "I meant no harm," answered the Steward.
"See here, in token of fellowship let him drink my health and restore
himself with this wine which I have in a gourd." The Steward handed
this to the Cook, who at once put it to his lips and emptied it at
one draught. We all laughed at this eagerness, and at the sudden
change which came over him. He was now all smiles and friendliness.