“An’ sech a nice-lookin’ young man an’ arl!” quoth a matron with a fat baby in her arms, whom Sir John saluted with a bow, whereupon she hid blushing face behind her plump baby.
But as they progressed the crowd grew and, with increasing number, their attitude waxed more threatening; laughter changed to angry mutterings, clods and stones began to fly.
“I waarned ’ee ’ow ’twould be!” quoth old Penelope bitterly. “You’d best leave me an’ run, young man, quick—up the twitten yonder!” Even as she spoke, Sir John was staggered by a well-aimed clod and his hat spun from his head. Setting down the basket, he turned and stood fronting the crowd frowning a little, chin uptilted, serene of eye. Foremost among their assailants was a burly young fellow, chiefly remarkable for a very wide mouth and narrow-set eyes, towards whom Sir John pointed with his holly-stick.
“Pray, Mistress Haryott,” he inquired in his clear, ringing tones, “who is yonder ill-conditioned wight?”
“That?” cried old Penelope in fierce scorn. “It be Tom Simpson, a Lon’on lad ... one o’ th’ Excise as creeps an’ crawls an’ spies on better men——”
“Oh, do I, then!” snarled the burly young man. “I’ll knock your dummed eye out for that, I will!” And he reached for a stone, but checked suddenly as Sir John strode towards him carrying the holly-stick much as if it had been a small-sword.
“Talking of eyes,” quoth Sir John, with a graceful flourish of the stick, “drop that stone, lest I feel it necessary to blind you!” and he made an airy pass at the face of the young man, who leapt back so precipitately that he stumbled and fell, whereupon the crowd, roaring with laughter at his discomfiture, pressed nearer, eager for diversion.
“Doan’t let ’un bloind ’ee, lad!” cried one.
“’E bean’t so big as ’ee, Tom! Tak’ a ’edge-stake tu un!”
“Noa, tak’ my ol’ bat; it du be a good ’eavy ’un, Tom!” cried a second.