“Why, do you mean to throw out hints—” said the tinker, laying his herring on the grass, and advancing with a formidable frown and clenched fists toward Darby; “dost thee mean—”
“Now don't babble; the question's settled,” said Darby; “don't prate, or we'll quarrel.”
“And I'll be jiggered if we don't,—whether thee likes or not. I'll stand up for my own character;—it's nature:—so ax pardon, or strip.”
“Strip! How the devil do you think I'd ever get my rags on again, eh? Ha! ha!”
“Come, come; a joke won't carry it off; it's too heavy. Talk to I about her rings!—I—I—I—Oh! d—n thee! I'll thrash thee!”
The ballad-singer held up his stumps, and hopping back two paces, cried, “What, would you assault one with not a plural offensive or defensive about him?”
“Oh! dang that!—thee'rt right, though;—it's natural Here, pedlar, help me to tie up my leg and arm, and put thy neckerchief athirt my eye:—fair play's the word.”
The little girl now screamed loudly, and beseeched the pedlar to interfere. “Oh! pray, dear Mr. Pedlar, don't let them fight! Oh! he's going to kill the poor man with the little wooden leg!”
“Do ye hear—do ye hear?” exclaimed the pedlar, “how the bit creature—the cause o' your quarrel—”
“Oh! pray let me run away,” sobbed the child; “and then perhaps they'll be friends;—do let me go!”