The posse started boldly enough for his game, but was suddenly brought to a stand-still in his reeling course by the sharp point of the rapier playing about his legs. He made several indignant efforts to overcome the obstacle. The point of the blade was none too gentle with him, even as he beat a retreat; and his enthusiasm waned.
“Arrest him yourself–hic!” he exclaimed.
Swallow’s face grew red with rage. To have his orders disobeyed fired him with much more indignation of soul than the escape of the ruffian, who was simply defrauding the landlord of a dinner. He turned hotly upon the insubordinate posse, crying:
“I’ll arrest you, you Buzzard–hic!”
“I’ll arrest you, you Swallow–hic!” with equal dignity retorted Buzzard.
“I’m his Majesty’s constable–hic!” hissed Swallow, from lips charged with air, bellows-like.
“I’m his Majesty’s posse–hic!” hissed Buzzard in reply.
The two drunken representatives of the law seized each other angrily. The landlord, in despair, endeavoured hopelessly to separate them.
“A wrangle of the generals,” laughed Charles. “Now is our time.” He looked about quickly for an exit.
“Body o’ me! The vagabonds’ll escape,” shouted the landlord.