Galloping Dick
sword brags too loudly for the business. There’s a cut about your face that derides you at it; and your hair is not the colour of a lackey’s periwig. If I was you,” says I, “sink me, but I’d set up myself for a gentleman of fortune.”
“What would you have me do? Where should I turn for a living?” he asked, looking amused.
“You talk of living,” says I with a wink. “But, mark’ee, young fellow, there’s also dying. And a man may die with his sword in his fist—the faster the better.”
“Well?” he says, grinning.
I bent over, and tapping him on the shoulder, said, very mysteriously, “Come with me,” says I. He lifted his brows, interrogating me. “Oh yes,” says I, “but there’s many a good man is like to follow where I am for.”
“Where is that?” says he.
“Why,” says I in a whisper, “to the side of King James III,” says I, “by the grace of God, King of England and Scotland and Lord of Ireland.”
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