Hence!—avoid thee, ere I summon Talpack with his fiery lance, to quell, crush, and consume!” These words he uttered with violent gesticulation, mouthing and flourishing his hammer.
“Peace, thou vile cozener, with thy gipsy cant!” replied Tressilian, scornfully, “and follow me to the next magistrate, or I will cut thee over the pate.”
“Peace, I pray thee, good Wayland!” said the boy; “credit me, the swaggering vein will not pass here; you must cut boon whids.”[1]
“I think, worshipful sir,” said the smith, sinking his hammer, and assuming a more gentle and submissive tone of voice, “that when so poor a man does his day’s job, he might be permitted to work it out after his own fashion. Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid—What need you cumber yourself further, than to mount and pursue your journey?”
“Nay, friend, you are mistaken,” replied Tressilian; “every man has a right to take the mask from the face of a cheat and a juggler; and your mode of living raises suspicion that you are both.”
“If you are so determined, sir,” said the smith, “I cannot help myself save by force, which I were unwilling to use towards you, Master Tressilian; not that I fear your weapon, but because I know you to be a worthy, kind, and well-accomplished gentleman, who would rather help than harm a poor man that is in a strait.”
“Well said, Wayland,” said the boy, who had anxiously awaited the issue of their conference.
- ↑ “Give good words.”—Slang dialect.
