“They seek the jackanapes who dared to curse them from the window,” said Peter Sharp. “’Tis he, they say, that spoiled the bear-fight. His man, Rouse, hath started out in search, and they, being no more threatened by the giant, are bent on scouring the town. Oh, ’twill be brave sport to see the Wolf well harried.” The needle-maker looked keenly at Watkins, behind whom Vytal, unknowingly, stood concealed by the shadows of the shop.
Watkins forced a laugh. “Ay, brave sport,” said he; “but ’tis not to the town he’s gone; he hath started out toward Lambeth.”
“Toward Lambeth!” cried young Frazer, who by now stood face to face with Watkins. “Ho, for Lambeth, then; but first let us stop and invite the bear-wards thither. ’Tis in part their right to end the quarrel.”
Here, perhaps, the danger would have been averted had not a new quarrel arisen of far more serious consequence, and, indeed, so fraught with import that, although but incidental, we recognize it as one of those contentions in which the very Fates themselves, seeming to join, brawl like shrews until their thread is snarled and the whole fabric of a human life becomes a hopeless tangle.
As Watkins closed the door of his shop, Sir Walter St. Magil turned back toward the ‘Tabard’ in ugly mood. The wine, which at first had exhilarated him, being now soured by his disapproval of Frazer’s rashness, only added to his ill-humor. Young Frazer, on the other hand, who walked beside him, had grown merrier and even less cautious than before. Now that the Canary wine had fired his brain, other considerations were cast aside, all policy forgotten. The air of refinement and courtliness which, being so well assumed, had previously seemed genuine, left him suddenly. He became but an ill-bred roysterer, singing, as he started back, various catches of ribald songs, while Gorm, the bear-ward, arm-in-arm with Peter Sharp, followed not over-steadily, and several other tipplers, who, from their windows in the bridge houses, had seen the gathering before Watkins’s leather-shop, hurried out to bring up the rear with a chorus of vulgar jesting.
At the Southwark Gate Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, who by now was leading the motley throng with an apish dance, having caught the spirit of hilarity, came to a stand-still and turned to the bear-ward, who was shambling after him as steadily as his bandy legs and tipsy condition would allow. “’S bodikin!” he exclaimed. “Now tell me, jovial Bruin-baiter, didst ever see so remarkable a sight?” He pointed ahead of him to a young girl approaching the gateway on the High Street, escorted by a man who was evidently her servant. “Here’s a wench with a ruff, indeed!”
The girl of whom he spoke was now within the scope of the light cast by a number of lanthorns the revellers were carrying. Seeing them, and hearing the needle-maker’s rude observation, she hesitated timidly; then, bidding her servant follow her, turned toward a side street, with the evident intention of escaping insult by taking barge across the Thames from the nearest water-gate.
“A ruff that wears a wench, I should say,” corrected Frazer.
“Yes, and by donning such extreme attire,” declared the needle-maker, assuming an air of official importance, “she breaks the queen’s decree. It is but the duty of all good citizens like myself to stop these outlandish practices. Do you detain her, Gorm, while I fetch shears and cut the thing as the law demands.” Whereupon the mischievous Peter ran back quickly, and Gorm, with a coarse oath, staggered forward to intercept the girl.
“Yes, a ruff that wears a wench,” repeated Frazer, evidently pleased with his own facetiousness.