e devil, God bless us! mun be
playing his pranks with Gilbert too, as sure as I'm a living soul--I'se
wager a teaster, the foul fiend has left the seaman, and got into
Gilbert, that he has--when a has passed through an ass and a horse, I'se
marvel what beast a will get into next." "Probably into a mule," said
the knight; "in that case, you will be in some danger--but I can, at any
time, dispossess you with a horse-whip."--"Ay, ay," answered Timothy,
"your honour has a mortal good hand at giving a flap with a fox's tail,
as the saying is--'t is a wonderment you did not try your hand on that
there wiseacre that stole your honour's harness, and wants to be an
arrant with a murrain to 'un. Lord help his fool's head, it becomes him
as a sow doth a cart saddle." "There is no guilt in infirmity," said the
knight; "I punish the vicious only." "I would your honour would punish
Gilbert then," cried the squire, "for 't is the most vicious tuoad that
ever I laid a leg over--but as to that same seafaring man, what may his
distemper be?"

"Madness," answered Sir Launcelot. "Bodikins," exclaimed the squire, "I
doubt as how other volks are leame of the same leg--but it an't vor such
small gentry as he to be mad; they mun leave that to their betters."
"You seem to hint at me, Crabshaw. Do you really think I am mad?" "I
may say as how I have looked your honour in the mouth; and a sorry dog
should I be, if I did not know your humours as well as I know e'er a
beast in the steable at Greavesbury Hall." "Since you are so well
acquainted with my madness," said the knight, "what opinion have you of
yourself, who serve and follow a lunatic?" "I hope I han't served your
honour for nothing, but I shall inherit some of your cast vagaries--when
your honour is pleased to be mad, I should be very sorry to be found
right in my senses. Timothy Crabshaw will never eat the bread of
unthankfulness--it shall never be said of him, that he was wiser than his
measter. As for the matter of following a madman, we may see your
honour's face is made of a fiddle; every one that looks on you, loves
you." This compliment the knight returned, by saying, "If my face is a
fiddle, Crabshaw, your tongue is a fiddlestick that plays upon it--yet
your music is very disagreeable--you don't keep time." "Nor you neither,
measter," cried Timothy, "or we shouldn't be here wandering about under a
cloud of night, like sheep-stealers, or evil spirits with troubled
cons