"
And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and pretended
to die in a fit of coughing, which last was, alas! no counterfeit, while
poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fast upon my knees.
"Fine him a pot!" roared one, "for talking about kicking the bucket. He's
a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and talk about 'a short life
and a merry one.' Here comes the heavy. Hand it here to take the taste of
that fellow's talk out of my mouth."
"Well, my young'un," recommenced my tormentor, "and how do you like your
company?"
"Leave the boy alone," growled Crossthwaite; "don't you see he's crying?"
"Is that anything good to eat? Give me some on it if it is--it'll save me
washing my face." And he took hold of my hair and pulled my head back.
"I'll tell you what, Jemmy Downes," said Crossthwaite, in a voice which
made him draw back, "if you don't drop that, I'll give you such a taste of
my tongue as shall turn you blue."
"You'd better try it on then. Do--only just now--if you please."
"Be quiet, you fool!" said another. "You're a pretty fellow to chaff the
orator.
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