The bonny Scot had given full scope to the play of this small
artillery of city wit, by halting his stately pace, and viewing
grimly, first the one assailant, and then the other, as if menacing
either repartee or more violent revenge. But phlegm or prudence got
the better of his indignation, and tossing his head as one who valued
not the raillery to which he had been exposed, he walked down Fleet
Street, pursued by the horse-laugh of his tormentors.
"The Scot will not fight till he see his own blood," said Tunstall,
whom his north of England extraction had made familiar with all manner
of proverbs against those who lay yet farther north than himself.
"Faith, I know not," said Jenkin; "he looks dangerous, that fellow--he
will hit some one over the noddle before he goes far.--Hark!--hark!--
they are rising."
Accordingly, the well-known cry of, "'Prentices--'prentices--Clubs--
clubs!" now rang along Fleet Street; and Jenkin, snatching up his
weapon, which lay beneath the counter ready at the slightest notice,
and calling to Tunstall to take his bat and follow, leaped over the
hatch-door which protected the outer-shop, and ran as fast as he could
towards the affray, echoing the cry as he ran, and elbowing, or
shoving aside, whoever stood in his way. His comrade, first calling to
his master to give an eye to the shop, followed Jenkin's example, and
ran after him as fast as he could, but with more attention to the
safety and convenience of others; while old David Ramsay, with hands
and eyes uplifted, a green apron before him, and a glass which he had
been polishing thrust into his bosom, came forth to look after the
safety of his goods and chattels, knowing, by old experience, that,
when the cry of "Clubs" once arose, he would have little aid on the
part of his apprentices.
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