bourne, “I need hardly enquire after Tony Foster; for when ropes, and crossbow shafts, and pursuivant’s warrants, and such like gear, were so rife, Tony could hardly ’scape them.”
“Which Tony Foster mean you?” said the innkeeper.
“Why, he they called Tony Fire-the-Fagot, because he brought a light to kindle the pile round Latimer and Ridley, when the wind blew out Jack Thong’s torch, and no man else would give him light for love or money.”
“Tony Foster lives and thrives,” said the host.—“But, kinsman, I would not have you call him Tony Fire-the-Fagot, if you would not brook the stab.”
“How! is he grown ashamed on’t?” said Lambourne; “why, he was wont to boast of it, and say he liked as well to see a roasted heretic as a roasted ox.”
“Ay, but, kinsman, that was in Mary’s time,” replied the landlord, “when Tony’s father was Reeve here to the Abbot of Abingdon. But since that, Tony married a pure precisian, and is as good a protestant, I warrant you, as the best.”
“And looks grave, and holds his head high, and scorns his old companions,” said the mercer.
“Then he hath prospered, I warrant him,” said Lambourne; “for ever when a man hath got nobles of his own, he keeps out of the way of those whose exchequers lie in other men’s purchase.”
“Prospered, quotha!” said the mercer; “why,
