"Indeed," says the landlord, "I shall use no such civility towards
him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more
a gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a great
squire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not
for any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as
possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the
best. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon."
"What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?" answered the
Quaker. "Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man."
"Not at all," replied Robin; "the guide, who knows him very well,
told it me." For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at
the kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he
knew or had ever heard concerning Jones.
The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low
fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest
plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would
have felt at receiving an affront from such a person.
The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so
that when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was
acquainted that he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the
mean condition of his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of
his intentions, which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable
opportunity of robbing the house.
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