eir worships. How, cried Panurge, there are some
grandees here then, I see. It is vintage time with you, I perceive.

Then Double-fee led us up to a private staircase, and showed us into a
room, whence, without being seen, out at a loophole we could see their
worships in the great wine-press, where none could be admitted without
their leave. Their worships, as he called them, were about a score of
fusty crack-ropes and gallow-clappers, or rather more, all posted before a
bar, and staring at each other like so many dead pigs. Their paws were as
long as a crane's foot, and their claws four-and-twenty inches long at
least; for you must know they are enjoined never to pare off the least chip
of them, so that they grow as crooked as a Welsh hook or a hedging-bill.

We saw a swingeing bunch of grapes that are gathered and squeezed in that
country, brought in by them. As soon as it was laid down, they clapped it
into the press, and there was not a bit of it out of which each of them did
not squeeze some oil of gold; insomuch that the poor grape was tried with a
witness, and brought off so drained and picked, and so dry, that there was
not the least moisture, juice, or substance left in it; for they had
pressed out its very quintessence.

Double-fee told us they had not often such huge bunches; but, let the worst
come to the worst, they were sure never to be without others in their
press. But hark you me, master of mine, asked Panurge, have they not some
of different growth? Ay, marry have they, quoth Double-fee. Do you see
here this little bunch, to which they are going to give t'other wrench? It
is of tithe-growth, you must know; they crushed, wrung, squeezed and
strained out the very heart's blood of it but the other day; but it did not
bleed freely; the oil came hard, and smelt of the priest's chest; so that
they found there was not much good to be got out of it. Why then, said
Pantagruel, do they put it again into the press? Only, answered
Double-fee, for fear there should still lurk some juice among the husks and
hullings in the mother of the grape. The devil be damned! cried Friar
John; do you call these same folks illiterate lobcocks and duncical
doddipolls? May I be broiled like a red herring if I do not think they are
wise enough to skin a flint and draw oil out of a brick wall. So they are,
said Double-fee; for they sometimes put castles, parks, and forests into
the press, and out of them all extract au