"Brother Merripall, you are a chartered libertine, and enjoy the privilege of saying what you will. But--you were a little too hard upon the troop--indeed you were! My grandfather was a Lumber Trooper--my father, too--you knew my father, Marmaduke Merripall."
"And I knew a right honourable man! And I know another right honourable man, my very good friend, his son! And--but------"
'Tis an old saying and a true one, that adversity tries friends. So does a momentary quarrel, or what is more germane to our present purpose, a mischievous badinage, in which great wits and small ones too, will occasionally indulge. Mr. Merripall had been wront--good naturedly!--to make Mr. Rasp his butt; who, though he was quite big enough for one, sometimes felt the sharp arrows of the comical coffin-maker's wit a thorn in his "too--too solid flesh." The troop was his tender point.
"And who has not his tender point?" said Mr. Bosky, "except the man that caught cold of his own heart, and died of it!"
The hand of Mr. Rasp was instantly stretched forth, and met more than half way by that of Mr. Merripall.
"Brother," said the president, "let me make amends to the troop by requesting you will propose me as a member. Only," and he shot a sly glance from his eye, "save me from the balls, black and blue, of that Presbyterian pawnbroker, Posthumus Pledge of Pye-corner."
Mr. Rasp promised to comply, and moreover to set forth his friend's military prowess to the best advantage.
"I think," said he, "your division stormed the Press-yard, and captured the whipping-post, during the Aldersgate Street Volunteer campaigning in 1805."
"Right, brother Ralph, and when the Finsbury awkward squad routed your left wing in the City Road, and you all ran helter-skelter into the boiled buttock of beef shop in the Old Bailey, we valiant sharp-shooters protected your flank, and covered your inglorious retreat!" And he entertained the company with this appropriate recitation:--
Snuff, sugar, spices, at wholesale prices,
Singeing the curls of Moses Muggs, Esquire--
Limp'd forth--but no admission!--he was lame.
"Lame!" cried the Briton; "zounds! I say,
"The red-coat," continued Mr. Merripall, "has no vision beyond '_eyes right_' He would march till doomsday, unless commanded to halt, and everlastingly maintain the same poker-like position, if the word were not given him to stand at ease. He goes forth to kill at a great rate," ( Dr. Dose pricked up his ears,) "and be killed at a small one per diem (the mutes looked glum,) "carrying into battle a heart of oak, and out of it a timber toe!"