“There’s enough to make us all,” said Gadshill.
“Be hanged,” put in Jack, in the highest spirits imaginable.
“Sirs,” said the Prince, “you four shall front them in a narrow lane. Ned Poins and I will walk lower. If they ‘scape from your encounter, then they light on us.”
And will any one make me believe that this man won the battle of Agincourt?—unless, indeed, by some parallel stratagem. There, as at Gadshill, I doubt not but he had his Falstaffs, Bardolphs *, and Petos to bear the first brunt of the battle, while he and his congenial fellows walked lower—reserving themselves to enjoy the fruits of victory. Never tell me what historians have said! I am an historian myself; and I know that there are some people of that profession who will write anything—provided they are properly paid for it.
* This unpremeditated association of the names of Bardolph
and Agincourt causes the historian to drop a tear on his
proof sheet, in anticipation of a painful event that
inexorable duty will compel him to chronicle by and by.
“How many be there of them?” General Falstaff inquired, previous to arranging his plan of battle.
“Some eight or ten.”
A prospective difficulty, such as could not have been foreseen by any but a comprehensive mind capable of embracing all emergencies, presented itself to our hero, who exclaimed—
“Zounds! will they not rob us?”
“What, a coward, Sir John Paunch!” asked the Prince, mockingly.