CHAPTER FIVE.
HOW I PARTED WITH MY CLOAK.
My mind was all in confusion as I hurried forward to the river-side inn.
Everything seemed to be going wrong with me, and I wished heartily I was back in London with my fellow 'prentices, and my kind mistress, and the sweet Jeannette.

They, at least, believed in me; but here, everyone with one consent conspired to tell me I was but a fool.

I had made myself a laughing-stock at Maidenhead; I had been pinned up against the wall, by a boy my own age, in this place; I had assaulted a Mayor at Oxford; I had parted with my cloak, which contained life and death in the lining of it, to a stranger; and more than all, I had given my love to a fellow who, if the Welshman was right, was a horrible traitor and Papist! A fine piece of work, verily, and little wonder if my conceit was somewhat abated after it all! Yet, as I ran on, I thought more about my wild friend at the inn, than about any one else.

I could hardly believe him to be a rogue; although all that the Welshman said of him tallied with my own observation.

Nay, more, to my dismay, I found by my heart that even were he all the rogue he was painted, I could scarcely bring myself to like him the less.
"At least," thought I, "if he be a knave, he is an honest one; and my cloak will be safe with him." As I came to the inn, which I had scarcely yet seen by daylight, it seemed gayer and more bustling that I had found it last night.