“Thy fool’s pate is not so dull,” he said, half aloud, as he lighted a long pipe and puffed violently. “Thy wit would crack a quarter-staff. ’Sbud, would’st be my posse?”
This was, indeed, a concession on the part of the constable, who was over-weighted with the dignity of the law which he upheld.
“Would’st be at my command,” he continued, “to execute the King’s Statu quos on rogues?”
“Marry, Constable Buzzard!” exclaimed the toper, gleefully. “Nay, and I would!”
“Marry, ‘Constable’ Buzzard!” replied Swallow, with tremendous indignation at the assumption of the fellow. “Nay, and thou would’st not, ass! By my patron saint–”
As the constable spoke, Buzzard’s eye, with a leer, lighted on the cask in the corner. He bethought him that it had a vent-hole even though the landlord had removed the spigot. He tiptoed unsteadily across the room, and proceeded with much difficulty to insert a straw in the small opening. He had thus already added materially to his maudlin condition, before Swallow discovered, with consternation and anger, the temporary advantage which the newly appointed posse had secured.
The cunning constable held carefully on to his tongue, however. He quietly produced a knife and staggered in his turn to the cask, unobserved by the unsuspecting Buzzard, whose eyes were tightly closed in the realization of a dream of his highest earthly bliss.
In an instant, the straw was clipped mid-way and the constable was enjoying the contents of the cask through the lower half, while Buzzard slowly awakened to the fact that his dream of bliss had vanished and that he was sucking a bit of straw which yielded naught.
“Here, knave,” commanded Swallow, between breaths, pushing the other roughly aside, “thou hast had enough for a posse. Fill my mug, thou ignoranshibus.”
Buzzard staggered toward the table to perform the bidding. “The flagon’s empty, Master Constable,” he replied, and forthwith loudly called out, “Landlord! Landlord!”