"Betters!" bellowed the broken-nosed man, rising to his feet. "Plagues, curses, and damnations! Does the dog live that says 'betters' to me? I am called Cutting Tom, thou bubble!—Cutting Tom, and that's the hell of it!"
"An you be called Cutting Tom," replied Maylands, taking a little courage from the sound of his own voice, "'tis plain you are called so for the cuts you have received, not given. The wounds in your dirty face come not from war, but from bottles thrown by hostesses you've cheated. Out of this room, dog-face!—you and your scurvy crew. 'Twould take a forest of juniper to sweeten the place while you're in it. You are not fit for the presence of such handsome ladies."
"A gentleman of spirit," whispered one of the ladies, audibly.
"What, thou froth, thou vapour, thou fume!" roared Cutting Tom. "Avaunt! ere I stick you with my dagger and hang you up by the love-lock at a butcher's stall for veal."
"Hence, thou slave," retorted Maylands, "thou pick-purse, thou horse-stealer, thou contamination, thou conglomeration of all plagues—!"
"Thou bundle of refuse!" put in Master Hawes.
"Thou heap of mud!" added Master Dauncey.
"Thou filth out of the street-ditch!" cried Master Clarington.
Meanwhile the women had scampered to the fireplace for safety. Cutting Tom's three comrades had found their feet, and they now joined their voices to his in a chorus of abuse, defiance, and threat; they beat the table fearsomely with their sheathed swords. In turn, the young gentlemen half-drew their blades and then pushed them violently back again, and trod angrily upon the rushes. Cutting Tom's party had all got to that side of the table farther from the door. The four intruders therefore advanced to the table, and with terrible words belaboured their adversaries across it.
"A step more," cried Cutting Tom, banging his sword handle upon the table, "and I'll spit ye!"