“Come, come, pedlar, 'ware that,” growled the tinker; “good words or broken heads, says the old saying.”
“Hold your tongue, you reprobate!” exclaimed Sir Waldron.
“Silence!” roared Batter in the tinker's ear, while Quality dealt him an apothegm.
“What you want with the child I cannot comprehend,” continued Sir Waldron; “why not take one of those poor things, of whom you're the putative father? that would do you a little credit—Why wish for this little stranger?”
“Why, your worship”—The tinker was cut short in his reply to the magistrate's question, by Batter shouting silence, and Quality giving him a nudge.
“Blockhead!” exclaimed Sir Waldron to Batter; “am I not to have an answer to my question? let the man speak, and do you behave with common sense, or, by heaven, I'll commit you.—Speak, tinker, how do you account for your wishing to take this child in preference to your own? I must tell you, that it looks strange and suspicious.”
“Why,” replied the tinker, “I ha'n't no wish in particular about it:—to be sure, I took a fancy to her; she hath such a main pretty little nob, and a pearly sort of an eye, just like my best almond tumbler pigeon at home—and the poney likes her; so its natural, you see, your worship: but then, I don't covet her; only keep her out of these chaps' clutches, that's all I say; except, mind me, this:—I wouldn't offend your worship for the world; I'd pretty near die first,—but, look'ee, Sir Waldron, if your constable pokes I in the ribs again, as he hath twice, I'll just make so free as to break his neck, here right, if I do die for't;—it's nature you know.”
“This language is improper;—we must not hear it,” observed Reginald.
“How dare you strike the man?” exclaimed Sir Waldron.
“I merely gave him a hint—”