Here the probationary disciple of Galen, who stood at his master's
door in his flat cap and canvass sleeves, with a large wooden pestle
in his hand, took up the ball which was flung to him by Jenkin, with,
"What d'ye lack, sir?--Buy a choice Caledonian salve, _Flos sulphvr.
cum butyro quant. suff._"

"To be taken after a gentle rubbing-down with an English oaken towel,"
said Vincent.

The bonny Scot had given full scope to the play of this small
artillery of city wit, by halting his stately pace, and viewing
grimly, first the one assailant, and then the other, as if menacing
either repartee or more violent revenge. But phlegm or prudence got
the better of his indignation, and tossing his head as one who valued
not the raillery to which he had been exposed, he walked down Fleet
Street, pursued by the horse-laugh of his tormentors.

"The Scot will not fight till he see his own blood," said Tunstall,
whom his north of England extraction had made familiar with all manner
of proverbs against those who lay yet farther north than himself.

"Faith, I know not," said Jenkin; "he looks dangerous, that fellow--he
will hit some one over the noddle before he goes far.--Hark!--hark!--
they are rising."

Accordingly, the well-known cry of, "'Prentices--'prentices--Clubs--
clubs!" now rang along Fleet Street; and Jenkin, snatching up his
weapon, which lay beneath the counter ready at the slightest notice,
and calling to Tunstall to take his bat and follow, leaped over the
hatch-door which protected the outer-shop, and ran as fast as he could