“Gentlemen,” said the elder watchman, drawing back, “this is no common brawl; we have been shamefully beaten by this here madman, and for no earthly cause.”
“Who ever did beat a watchman for any earthly cause, you rascal?” cried the accused party, swinging his walking cane over the complainant’s head with a menacing air.
“Very true,” cried Tarleton, coolly. “Seigneurs of the watch, you are both made and paid to be beaten; ergo—you have no right to complain. Release this worthy cavalier, and depart elsewhere to make night hideous with your voices.”
“Come, come,” quoth the younger Dogberry, who perceived a reinforcement approaching, “move on, good people, and let us do our duty.”
“Which,” interrupted the elder watchman, “consists in taking this hulking swaggerer to the watchhouse.”
“Thou speakest wisely, man of peace,” said Tarleton; “defend thyself;” and without adding another word he ran the watchman through—not the body but the coat; avoiding with great dexterity the corporeal substance of the attacked party, and yet approaching it so closely as to give the guardian of the streets very reasonable ground for apprehension. No sooner did the watchman find the hilt strike against his breast, than he uttered a dismal cry and fell upon the pavement as if he had been shot.
“Now for thee, varlet,” cried Tarleton, brandishing his rapier before the eyes of the other watchman, “tremble at the sword of Gideon.”
“O Lord, O Lord!” ejaculated the terrified comrade of the fallen man, dropping on his knees, “for Heaven’s sake, sir, have a care.”
“What argument canst thou allege, thou screech-owl of the metropolis, that thou shouldst not share the same fate as thy brother owl?”
“Oh, sir!” cried the craven night-bird (a bit of a humourist in its way), “because I have a nest and seven little owlets at home, and t’ other owl is only a bachelor.”