"Who wrote them?" Charles demanded.
"I don't——"
"What!" and the—th volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, newly arrived from the binder, winged its way in the direction of the quivering bookseller. This he ducked to avoid, but even as he ducked, the five volumes of Mr. Ozell's revision of Urquhart and Motteux' Rabelais burst over him like an exploded hand grenade.
"Who wrote them?"
"Truly I don't——"
This time Mr. Prior's Poems on Several Occasions carried his wig into obscurity, and the owner clapped a hand to his head just in time to receive the bevelled morocco edges of the Beggar's Opera full on the fingers.
"Mr. Lovely, sir, you are too violent."
"Violent, you dog? By G—— if you don't give the name of the son of a w—— that wrote these damnable lines, I'll flay you alive and bind my next edition of poems with your lousy skin." The foxy-faced old young man commenced to wring his hands.
"Mr. Lovely," he almost screamed. "Mr. Lovely, you're mad—go out of my shop."
"Who wrote those lines? Answer, or I'll break up your shop—ay! break it up with your own sign-board. At the Sign of the Woman—at the Sign of the Strumpet! Answer me, you lickspittle vermin, answer me."