Pistol strode into the orchard, looking daggers around him. Pistol was in the habit of looking daggers, as I might be in the habit of looking fifty pound notes. The process was by no means a proof that he had one about him to make use of when called upon. He said—— But you shall hear what he said, and what was said to, and about, him, in the dramatic chronicler’s own words, with such unwritten elucidations, or “stage directions,” as your humble servant may consider himself justified in venturing upon.
Sik John Falstaff (indifferently).—How now, Pistol?
Pistol (with gesticulations of extravagant homage’).—Sir John, God save you, sir.
Sir John Falstaff (suspiciously, buttoning his pockets).—What wind blew you hither Pistol?
Pistol.—Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, th’art now one of the greatest men in the realm.
Master Silence (dimly reminded of a forgotten ballad, sings’)“By’r lady, I think ho bo, but goodman Puff of Barson.”
Pistol (at once discerning that Master Silence is a man who may be safely bullied).—Puff? Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!—Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend, and helter-skelter have I rode to thee; and tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, and golden times, and happy news of price.
Sir John Falstaff.—I pr’ythee now, deliver them like a man of this world.
Pistol.—A foutra for the world, and worldlings base! I speak of Africa, and golden joys.
Sir John Falstaff.—O base Assyrian knight! what is thy news? Let king Cophetua know the truth thereof.