"I mean to pit ye 'gainst the first roarers of the suburbs," said he. "Nothing short of the kings of Turnbull Street shall suffice ye, lads. What think ye of Cutting Tom himself? I know where he and his comrades take their supper nowadays. Save your breath for such; an ye roar them down in their own haunts, it shall be heard of. Waste no wind upon citizens or spruce gallants. Strike high, win supremacy at the first trial, and you are made men."
With such counsel he restrained them until he had led them through Smithfield to Cow Cross, near the town's edge.
Like a bent arm, lying northwestward along the fields toward Clerkenwell, was the narrow lane of ramshackle houses called Turnbull Street. Leaving his followers, the captain went into one of these houses. He soon came back.
"'Tis excellent," said he. "Cutting Tom and his friends are in the front room at the top o' the stairs. They are feasting it with the hostess and some of her gossips. You four shall go up and claim the room by right of superior quality. Master Holyday and I will stay below in talk with the bar-boy so they sha'n't know I'm with you; but if need be, call me."
"Nay, we shall want no help," said Master Maylands; but the quaver of his voice belied his show of confidence.
"'Tis well," replied Ravenshaw. "A rare thing to roar these braggarts from their own table, before the womankind of their own acquaintance! Come."
A minute later the four sparks, huddled close together, and with white faces, thrust themselves into an ill-plastered room where four villainous-looking fellows and as many painted women sat at table. These people suddenly ceased their loud talk and coarse laughter, and one of them,—the broken-nosed rascal with whom Ravenshaw had that day conversed in the cook-shop—demanded thunderously:
"Death and furies! Who the devil be these?"
"Your betters, bottle-ale rogue!" cried Maylands, somewhat shrilly, and like an actor in a play.