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"You got a tough throat," observed the rancher. "First I ever see that didn't choke on a swig of that. But you youngsters has the advantage of a sound lining for your innards." He helped himself from the flask, coughed heavily, and then pounded home the cork. "How's things up Whiteacre way?" "Fair to middlin'," said Jig. "They ain't hollering for rain so much as they was."
So then they let do a white cloth over a shield and hoist it on a long spear, and straightway they gat to horse, Jack of the Tofts, and Christopher, and Haward of Whiteacre, and Gilbert, and a half score all told; and they rode straight down to the ford, which was just below the tail of the eyot aforesaid, and as they went, they saw the going of the others, who were by now hard on the waterside; and said Jack: "See now, King Christopher, he who rides first in a surcoat of his arms is even the Baron, the black bullet-headed one; and the next to him, the red-head, is his squire and man, Oliver Marson, a stout man, but fierce and grim-hearted.
You gimme a kind of a start, stranger." Parodying the dialect as well as she was able, Jig said: "Sorry, stranger. Might that be Sour Creek?" "It sure might be," said the driver, leaning through the dark to make out Jig. "New in these parts?" "Yep, I'm over from Whiteacre way, and I'm aiming for Woodville." "Whiteacre? Doggone me if it ain't good to meet a Whiteacre boy. I was raised there, son!
Then spake Jack of the Tofts: "This is well thought of by Haward of Whiteacre, and we must look to it. And, by my rede, we shall have our women and little ones with us; and why not? For we shall then but be moving Toftstead as we move; and ever to some of us hath it been as a camp rather than an house.
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