clean and shining. In a corner stood an erection like a dark oaken
cupboard or wardrobe, but in the middle was an opening about a yard
square through which could be seen the night-capped face of a white-
headed, white-bearded old man, propped against snowy pillows. To
him Randall went at once, saying, "So, gaffer, how goes it? You see
I have brought company, my poor sister's sons--rest her soul!"

Gaffer Martin mumbled something to them incomprehensible, but which
the jester comprehended, for he called them up and named them to
him, and Martin put out a bony hand, and gave them a greeting.
Though his speech and limbs had failed him, his intelligence was
evidently still intact, and there was a tenderly-cared-for look
about him, rendering his condition far less pitiable than that of
Richard Birkenholt, who was so palpably treated as an incumbrance.

The table was already covered with a cloth, and Perronel quickly
placed on it a yellow bowl of excellent beef broth, savoury with
vegetables and pot-herbs, and with meat and dumplings floating in
it. A lesser bowl was provided for each of the company, with horn
spoons, and a loaf of good wheaten bread, and a tankard of excellent
ale. Randall declared that his Perronel made far daintier dishes
than my Lord Archbishop's cook, who went every day in silk and
velvet.

He explained to her his views on the armourer, to which she agreed
with all her might, the old gentleman in bed adding something which
the boys began to understand, that there was no worthier nor more
honourable condition than that of an English burgess, specially in
the good town of London, where the kings knew better than to be ever
at enmity with their good towns.