TOM SAYERS.
Tom Sayers, a fellow of lofty dimensions was brought up on an assault warrant, charged with having broken the nose of one Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, against the peace, &c.
Tom Sayers is a man who, during the late Peninsular war, "sought the bubble reputation, e'en in the cannon's mouth," as a British grenadier. Whether he found it or not, we are unable to say; but certain it is that he now enjoys the reputation of being an admirable culinary bricklayer—a dexterous setter of kitchen ranges; and with this reputation he is fully satisfied—handling his trowel, and dandling his little ones, and cherishing his wife, and drinking his beer, in peace and thankfulness.
Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, notwithstanding his uncommon name, is as common a looking concern as possible—a dirty little land-lubber in a seaman's dress, with a queer nose, queerly decorated on this occasion with divers broad straps of sticking-plaister—à la Baron Munchausen.
"An please your worship," said Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, with his hat grasped in both hands, and giving the floor a long scrape with his off foot—"an please your worship, last Tuesday night, as ever was, I goz into the Crown, in Seven Diles, thinking of nothin at all."
"Very likely,"—said his worship.
"Thinking of nothin at all," continued Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, "an ax'd for a pint of porter; an there were this here gentleman, Mr. Sayers, singing a song; an, becoz I said the song was all gammon, he punch'd my head, as your worship may see by my nose, an the landlord chucked me out before I'd half drink'd my beer!—an that's the whole truth about it, as Mr. Sayers can't deny if he's a mind to speak."
"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders," said tall Tom Sayers—drawing up himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders, turning out his toes, and placing his thumbs exactly in line with the seams of his dusty trousers—"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders."
His honour told him he was ready to hear anything he might have to say.
"Thank your honour," said honest Tom Sayers—with a hand-over-brow salute, and without losing the twentieth part of an inch in his altitude—"thank your honour! Your honour sees that I had been setting a stove grate and oven, for the landlord of the Crown here; with which setting he was pleased to say he was very well satisfied: and he asked me to take a pint of beer in token of the same. Just then, in comes my wife, with my child in her arms, to see whether I had done my job, and to walk home with me. I was pleased to see her, your honour—God bless her!—and I was pleased to see my child, and I was pleased that the landlord was pleased with my work; and so I took the child on my knee, and my wife and I sat down, side by side on the settle, to drink the pint of beer the landlord had given me. There he is! If I tell a lie, let him say so."
His worship told him he believed every word he had said.
"Why, thank your honour again, and I'll not disgrace your belief," rejoined the veteran grenadier. "As I was saying, your honour, I and my wife sat down kindly to drink the pint of beer—the beer the landlord gave me, your honour, because I had done my duty by his oven; and the child sat laughing on my knee, and an old comrade came in, and we drank together in memory of old times abroad, and in the pride of my heart—God forgive me!—I sung the 'Battle of Barossa Plains.'—It was a battle I served in, your honour, to the best of my ability, and my comrade had served by the side of me; and we thought no harm or offence to anybody. But this thing here—half sailor and half scamp (meaning Mr. Bybie Garmondsway), he must begin mocking me whilst I was singing, and insulting all land battles whatever. I asked him to be quiet, and he wouldn't; and after a bit the landlord marched him out, and told him to go home to his own quarters. Three times the landlord turned the envious lubber out, but he was no sooner out than he was in again, challenging me to fight. At last, your honour, I put down the child, and made a charge upon him, thinking to put him out in the street—for as to fighting with such a thing! that's neither here nor there; but I no sooner got hold of him, than, like a false lubber as he is, he turned about and tried to—to do me a private injury, your honour!—and then, sure enough, I did let fly my fist at his face; and, I if have done wrong, I must answer for it."
The landlord substantiated every part of honest Tom's story, and the magistrate instantly dismissed the complaint; at the same time telling Mr. Bybie Garmondsway that a civil tongue was the best preventive of a bruised nose.