“Please, sir,” he gurgled, “I’ve forgotten how to cheek my pike.”
Halfman mastered exasperation bravely, as, taking a pike from the hands of Thoroughgood, he strove to illuminate rusticity.
“Use your pike thus, noddy,” he lessoned, good-naturedly, wielding the weapon with the skill of a practised pikeman. But the illustration was as much lost upon Garlinge as the original command, and in his attempt to imitate it he whirled his arm so recklessly that his companions scattered in dismay, and Halfman himself was fain to move a step or two backward to avoid the yokel’s meaningless sweeps.
“Have a care,” he cried. “If you work so wild you will damage your company.”
Mrs. Satchell, taking her post in the now restored line, shook her red fist at the delinquent.
“He had best not damage me,” she thundered, “or I’ll damage him to some purpose.”
“Silence in the ranks!” Halfman commanded, sharply. “Charge your pikes,” he ordered.
This order was obeyed indifferently and tamely enough by all save the egregious Mrs. Satchell, who delivered so lusty a thrust with her weapon that Halfman was obliged to skip back briskly to avoid bringing his breast acquainted with her steel.
“Nay, woman, warily!” he shouted, half laughing, half angry. “Play your play more tamely. I am no rascally Roundhead.”
Mrs. Satchell grounded her weapon and wiped the sweat from her shining forehead with the back of her red hand. There was a deadly earnest in her eyes, a deadly earnest in her speech.