"
Giles turned angrily away from him towards the stable, tightening a
tough cudgel in his grasp, with which he intended to belabour the
unfortunate hind on his return. Nor was he long absent--Robin had
scarcely swallowed a mouthful of hot porridge when his master thus
accosted him--
"Why, thou hob thrust, no good can come where thy fingers are
a-meddling; there is another jade besides mine own tied to the rack, not
worth a groat. Dost let thy neighbours lift my oats and provender?
Better turn my mill into a spital for horses, and nourish all the
worn-out kibboes i' the parish!"
"Nay, measter, the beast is yours; and ye ha' foun' her bed and
provender these twenty years."
"I'll cudgel that lying spirit out o' thee," said Giles, wetting his
hands for a firm grasp at the stick.
"Hold, master!" said Robin, stepping aside; "she has cost you more
currying than all the combs in the stable are worth. Step in and take
off the bridle, and then say whose beast she is, and who hath most right
to her, you or your neighbours. But mind, when the bridle is off her
neck, she slip it not on to yours; for if she do you are a gone man.
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