“What did you run for, fellow?” said Sancho.

To which the young man replied, “Señor, it was to avoid answering all the questions officers of justice put.”

“What are you by trade?”

“A weaver.”

“And what do you weave?”

“Lance heads, with your worship’s good leave.”

“You’re facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very good; and where were you going just now?”

“To take the air, señor.”

“And where does one take the air in this island?”

“Where it blows.”