Swallow, however, gave him no encouragement, and the landlord once more started for the door.
On the way his eye lighted on a full cask which was propped up in the corner. Instinct was strong in him, even in death. It had been tapped, and it would be unsafe to leave it even for an instant within reach of such guests. He stopped and quickly replaced the spigot with a plug.
There was a third knock at the door–louder than before.
“Anon, anon!” he called, hastily turning and catching up the half-filled flagon from the table. He disappeared in the entry-way.
The brave representatives of the King’s law craned their necks, but they could hear nothing. As the silence continued, courage was gradually restored to them; and, with the return of courage, came the desire for further drink.
Swallow again seized his pike and staggered toward the entry-way to impress his companion with his bravery.
Buzzard caught the spirit of the action. “Marry, I’d be a constable, too, an it were to sit by the fire and guard a pretty wench,” he said. His face glowed in anticipation of such happiness as he glanced through the half-open door to the kitchen, where the landlord’s wife reigned.
“Egad, thou a constable!” ejaculated Swallow, contemptuously, throwing a withering glance in the direction of his comrade. “Thou ignoramamus! Old Rowley wants naught but brave men and sober men like me to guard the law. Thou art a drunken Roundhead. One of Old Noll’s vile ruffians. I can tell it by the wart on thy nose, knave.”
“Nay, Master Constable,” explained Buzzard, with an injured look at the mention of the wart, “it will soon away. Mother says, when I was a rosy babe, Master Wart was all in all; now I’m a man, Master Nose is crowding Neighbour Wart.”
Swallow put his hands on his knees and laughed deeply. He contemplated the nose and person of his companion with a curious air and grew mellow with patronage.