“Have done, ye scoundrels! He’s a man of peace.”
“Pace or war,” returned a watchman, “he’s the hardest hitter betune this and Bully’s acre, and that’s a big word. He give me one clip wid the left hand, and jist look at my eye, af ye plase. By this book,” and Charlie reverently held up his lantern, “I think it was the crown of my head that first titched the gravel. It was the clanest knock down I ivir got—and many’s the floorer I’ve had in my time from thim college divils. Bad luck attind them night and day—the thieves!”
“Who is the gentleman?” inquired the apothecary.
“Arrah! sorra one of us knows,” was the reply.
“Search his pockets,” said the leech;—“some paper will probably tell.”
The quaker’s coatee forthwith underwent a judicial investigation, and divers mercantile documents at once established the identity.
“Why,” said the apothecary, “he’s son of Mr. Pryme, the rich merchant, a man whom every body respects. By my conscience, I have one comfort for ye. If any thing goes wrong with the boy here, every man Jack of ye is sure of Botany Bay—ay! and the devil a rap it will cost any of ye for the passage out.”
“Oh!—murder! murder!” ejaculated sundry voices.
“Whish’t!” said the doctor, for I gave a twist upon the floor, and muttered—“Fill fair, and be d———d to you.”
“Holy Bridget!” ejaculated the chief of the Charlies—“if ivir I met a quaker of his kind. He drinks like a fish, and swears like a trooper!”