My
certy! but this'll gang throu ye as gin ye war sae mony kegs o' saut
butter!"
And he gave a flourish with his rapier--the crowd yielding a step
before it--as he asked once more--
"What do ye want wi' him?"
"To ca the sowl oot o' the wame o' the deil's buckie o' him," said a
limping ostler.
"I s' pang the mou' o' him wi' the hip o' a corp," cried a pale-faced
painter, who seemed himself to belong to the injured fraternity of
corpses.
A volley of answers too horrible for record, both in themselves and in
the strange devilry of their garnish of oaths, followed. Mr Cupples did
not flinch a step from his post. But, alas! his fiery sword had by this
time darkened into an iron poker, and the might of its enchantment
vanished as the blackness usurped its glow. He was just going to throw
it away, and was stretching out his other hand for his grandfather's
broadsword, which he had put in the corner by the door ready to replace
it, when a long arm, with a fist at the end of it, darted from between
the heads in front of him, hurled him across the room, and laid him
bleeding and senseless on his own hearth. The poker flew from his hand
as he fell. The crowd rushed in after him, upset his table, broke open
the door that protected his precious books, and with one vigorous kick
from the blacksmith's apprentice, sent in the door of Alec's retreat.
Pages:
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573