"Ay, manners, thou base, scurvy knave; thou houseless parasite, thou resuscitated starveling!—thou and thy hungry scholar!" put in Master Hawes.
"Oho! 'Tis thus? Ye think to try my swaggering lessons against me?" said the captain, springing to his feet.
"Pish! You are no better than Cutting Tom," retorted Maylands.
Ravenshaw's wrath knew no bounds. The four rebellious pupils and providers were on their feet, defiant and impudent.
"You'd raise your weak breath against me, would ye? And you'd finger your sword-hilts, would ye?" he roared. "By this hand, ye shall draw them, too! Draw, and fend your numbskulls 'gainst the whacks I'll give 'em! Draw, and save your puny shoulders! I scorn to use good steel against ye, dunces, lispers, puppies! I'll rout ye with a spit!"
They had drawn swords at his word, thinking he would wield his rapier against them. But, as it was, they had an ill time enough to defend themselves against the spit he had seized from the fireplace. Nimbly he knocked aside their blades, violently he charged among them, swiftly he laid about him on pates and bodies; so that in small time they fled, appalled and panic-stricken, not only from the room, but down the stairs. The captain did not take the trouble to follow them beyond the doorsill of the room.
"Hang them, bubbles!" quoth he. "They shall come on their knees and lick my shoes, ere I'll take 'em back to favour again."
But the scholar philosophically shrugged his shoulders.
To make matters worse, as the two were about to leave the tavern, they were called upon to pay the score. Ravenshaw said the young gentlemen would pay, as usual.