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Coom, coom, young man, get oop, get oop, never moind the coptain; I'se not afeard of the coptain." This was not encouragement sufficient to Strap, who could not be prevailed upon to venture up again; upon which I attempted, though not without a quaking heart, when I heard the same voice muttering, like distant thunder "Hell and the devil confound me, if I don't make you smart for this!"
"Hey-day!" cried Joey, "do yaw knaw the young mon, coptain?" "Know him," said Weazel, "many a time has he filled a glass of Burgundy for me, at my Lord Trippett's table." "And what may his name be, coptain?" said Joey. "His name! his name," replied Weazel, "is Tom Rinser." "Waunds," cried Joey, "a has changed his own neame then! for I'se lay a wager he was christened John Trotter."
Weazel replied with a look of disdain, that it was beneath any gentleman of his character to fight like a porter, or even to put himself on a footing, in any respect, with such a fellow as Strap. "Odds bodikins!" cries Joey, "sure, coptain, yaw would not commit moorder! Here's a poor lad that is willing to make atonement for his offence; and an that woan't satisfie yaw, offers to fight yaw fairly.
The poor shaver was so disconcerted at this exclamation, which both he and I imagined proceeded from the mouth of a giant, that he descended with great velocity and a countenance as white as paper. Joey, perceiving our astonishment, called, with an arch sneer, "Waunds, coptain, whay woant yau sooffer the poor waggoneer to meake a penny?
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