May 22, 1665
May 22, 1665As the church bell tolled noon, he heard the cry.
“Ass’s milch! Fresh from the teat! Sweet as honey!”
Pitman rose. His son would arrive soon, and Josiah hated the small beer in this alehouse, which was sourer than most. Indeed, the whole place stank, the rushes on the floor unchanged in months, clogged with scraps of food thrown down and the street filth customers’ boots had brought in. The alehouse’s location was its only recommendation: almost opposite the goldsmith shop of Mr. ben Judah, with glass that could be seen through if eyes were not too far removed from it, thick enough so that the shape of the watcher would be but vague from across the pavement, let alone the whole street.
He would buy both himself and his son ass’s milch. And he would take some ba
