“Now, Timothy Garlinge, call you that trailing of a pike. Why, Gammer Satchell carries herself more soldierly.”
Timothy Garlinge grinned loutishly at this rebuke, but the fat dame whom Halfman’s flourish indicated seemed to dilate with satisfaction.
“It were shame,” she chuckled, “if a handy lass could not better a lobbish lad.”
The impish lad grinned derision.
“Ay,” he commented; “but an old fool’s best at her spits and griddles.”
A most unmilitary titter rippled along the rank but broke upon the rock of Mrs. Satchell’s anger. It might have seemed to many that it were impossible for the dame’s cheeks to be any redder, but Mistress Satchell’s visage showed that nature could still work miracles. With face a rich crimson from chin to forehead, she made to hurl herself upon the leering, fleering mannikin, but was caught in the unbreakable restraint of neighbor Clupp’s clasp.
“You limb, I’ll griddle you!” Mistress Satchell gasped, panting in the embracing arms. Halfman played the peace-maker with a sour smile.
“There, there, goody,” he expostulated; “youth will have its yelp.”
He turned with something of a yawn to Thoroughgood.
“Why a devil did you press gossip cook into the service?”