“Hmpf! I cannot seem to think of one.”
“Indeed? I thought you said it was not so very difficult?”
“Bah! It is a trick. I’ll warrant there is no rhyme for orange.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Well, you come up with one, then!”
“Door hinge.”
“Door hinge?”
“Orange, door hinge… it rhymes.”
“And you call yourself a poet? What sort of rhyme is that?” “A perfectly serviceable one.”
“Indeed? I would like to see what sort of poem you’d write with that!”
“Well, you merely asked me for a rhyme, not an entire poem.”
“ ‘Twas you who asked me for the rhyme! Knowing all the while a better one could not be found. Is that what poets do, then, sit up all night drinking and thinking of such things?”
Shakespeare nodded. “More or less, aye.”
“And they pay you for this?”
“Not nearly well enough, if you ask me.”
The sound of rapid hoofbeats from behind them caused them both to turn in time to see a coach come barreling around the bend, bearing straight for them. The driver made absolutely no effort to rein in and there was no place for him to turn, not that he showed the slightest inclination for so doing. It was only by diving off to the side of the road, into the thorny brush, that they avoided being run down.
“Aaaaaahhhh! You pox-ridden, misbegotten son of a sheep tup-perl” Shakespeare cried out.
Smythe winced as he extricated himself from the thorn bushes and then helped the poet out.
“God’s bollocks! I’ll be picking thorns out of my arse for the next two weeks!”
“Oh, stop it, you will not,” said Smythe. “A few scratches, a thorny splinter here and there… you will survive.”
“No thanks to that miserable cur! What in God’s name was he thinking, careering down the road at such a pace? The fool will shake that fancy coach of his to pieces!”
“That was our friend from the inn last night, unless I miss my guess,” said Smythe. “The one who took the last few rooms.”
“What, the grand, well-spoken gentleman with his retinue of servants?” Shakespeare asked.
“The same, I think. He rose much later than we did, but makes much better time. He seems in quite a hurry.”
“Well, I hope he puts that shiny new coach of his into a ditch and breaks his gentlemanly neck, the blackguard!”
“If he keeps up like that, he might well do that,” said Smythe. “Although the road here is much wider and more level, he still goes at an unsafe pace.”
“Blast! Look at this! I am pricked with stickers like a pincushion!”
“Here, let me see.”
“Have a care now… ouch!”