Suddenly the soldier lunged forward with his long sword again, and did so fly and lay about him, that old Bertha took more exercise than she had taken since her hair turned white. As for the old doctor, he flew about till his respectable black legs looked like a dozen at least.
“Help, help!” shrieked the doctor.
“Murder, murder!” quavered the old lady, getting over the ground more quickly than ever.
“Oh! oh! oh!” said the young lady, in great fear of the drunken soldier. “Pray be still, soldier!”
Suddenly, and with a bound, rushed in barber.
“What’s the matter—what’s the clatter?
About a quiet house ’tis pity.
I pray you, doctor, gaze below,
What’s this to-do, the crowd would know.”
“This is a rogue.”
“Then you’re another.”
“This is a knave.”
“Then you’re my brother.”
Then the barber:
“Good Mr. Soldier, have a care,
Or, as sure as you stand there,
This basin here, at one fell smack,
’Gainst your sconce it shall go crack.”
“Bang—bang—bang!” at the street door.