The first set over, many returned to their seats to share in some of the mulled wine that was pouring round. Draeden instantly attacked the pasties and was prevailed upon by the old men who had returned to the tables in want of them.
“You just give that here,” said the old bodger, holding out his hand. “Highness or no, you take my pastie what I was savin’, and I’ll wallop you with my here shoe.”
He waved his shoe threateningly about, and Draeden was forced to part with his treat. He sighed and returned one pasty to the old bodger, and then he moved to go and eat the rest of his conquest in peace, but the old man grabbed his arm and drew him back again.
“I ain’t lettin’ you make off with the lot, Highness,” the old bodger protested. “You ate that there roast I wanted. I ain’t lettin’ you have all that.”
Draeden looked down and counted the pasties in his arms. “Perhaps we can share them, sir,” he said kindly, offering half his trove.
“Share? Pah! You don’t know nothin’ about sharin’. I seen you eat ‘em conies and geese yourself, boy.”
Draeden turned aside and hemmed in shame.
“You’re owin’ me for all ‘em chairs that there giant o’ yours keeps breakin’.” The bodger gave him an impatient look. “I’m old, boy. Don’t make me guilt you.”
A conciliating sigh and a blush, and Draeden made all his treasures over to the old man. He moaned at his misfortune, declared himself famished again, cursed Bryeison for being right, decried his wretched desire to dance, and inspected the tables until he found half a game hen untouched to satisfy him.