“Just be so good as to hold your tongues,” cried Quintus, who had been excessively amused by Herodianus’ pugnacity. “The little man on the table is going to answer him.”
“Silence for the jester!” shouted a chorus.
The buffoon stood still with his hand up to his ear.
“Did I not hear a pug-dog barking?” he said with inimitable comic gravity. “Yes, there he lies, a Maltese pug! Come, Lailaps, come! Here are Lucanian sausages!”
Looking impartially at the freedman’s face, it was impossible to deny that the resemblance was well hit, but Herodianus could hardly be expected to take this unprejudiced view of the matter. Forgetting where and with whom he was, he sprang from his couch, struck his fist on the table, and shouted out, crimson with rage:
“Come on, you braggart, if you dare! I will teach you, I will show you that ... that.... By Hercules! if you do not jump down this minute, you are the most cowardly, contemptible toad under the sun.”
The little man sprang like lightning over Stephanus’ head on to the floor, turned up the sleeves of his particolored shirt and shouted in mockery:
“Come on, Lailaps, come on! I will give you a thrashing.”
For a moment Herodianus seemed to hesitate; then he suddenly flew at the jester like the storm of wind suggested by his Greek dog-name. The jester, however, slipped on one side as quick as lightning, and Herodianus, who, indeed, was not very steady on his feet, fell at full-length on the floor. In an instant the buffoon was sitting astride on his back.
“Pug, you are snappish!” he exclaimed in a triumphant tone, and he began vigorously to belabor every part of the hapless freedman, that he could reach with his powerful fists.