“Nothing,” said I.
“Nothing!” repeated the Radical.
“No,” said I, “down with them as soon as you can.”
“As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?”
“No,” said I.
“You won’t?”
“No,” said I; “though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves.”
“You won’t fight for them,” said the Radical triumphantly; “I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord,” said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, “some more ale—he won’t fight for his friends.”
“A white feather,” said his companion.
“He! he!” tittered the man in black.