Mr. Mac Quedy.—Just give them the old spits and toasting irons, and they will go away quietly.
Mr. Chainmail.—My spears and swords! not without my life. These assailants are all aliens to my land and house. My men will fight for me, one and all. This is the fortress of beef and ale.
Mr. Mac Quedy.—Eh! sir, when the rabble is up, it is very indiscriminating. You are e’en suffering for the sins of Sir Simon Steeltrap and the like, who have pushed the principle of accumulation a little too far.
Mr. Chainmail.—The way to keep the people down is kind and liberal usage.
Mr. Mac Quedy.—That is very well (where it can be afforded) in the way of prevention; but in the way of cure the operation must be more drastic. (Taking down a battle-axe.) I would fain have a good blunderbuss charged with slugs.
Mr. Chainmail.—When I suspended these arms for ornament, I never dreamed of their being called into use.
Mr. Skionar.—Let me address them. I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away.
Mr. Mac Quedy.—Eh! sir, I can bring them to that conclusion in less time than you.
Mr. Crotchet.—I have no fancy for fighting. It is a very hard case upon a guest, when the latter end of a feast is the beginning of a fray.
Mr. Mac Quedy.—Give them the old iron.