handed."

"Ye--ye--yes," said Proudfute, in a melancholy tone, "he has got
my purse; but there is less matter since he hath left the hawking
bag."

"Nay, the hawking bag had been an emblem of personal victory, to
be sure--a trophy, as the minstrels call it."

"There is more in it than that, friend," said Oliver, significantly.

"Why, that is well, neighbour: I love to hear you speak in your own
scholarly tone again. Cheer up, you have seen the villain's back,
and regained the trophies you had lost when taken at advantage."

"Ah, Henry Gow--Henry Gow--" said the bonnet maker, and stopped
short with a deep sigh, nearly amounting to a groan.

"What is the matter?" asked his friend--"what is it you vex
yourself about now?"

"I have some suspicion, my dearest friend, Henry Smith, that the
villain fled for fear of you, not of me."

"Do not think so," replied the armourer: "he saw two men and fled,
and who can tell whether he fled for one or the other? Besides,
he knows by experience your strength and activity: we all saw how
you kicked and struggled when you were on the ground."

"Did I?" said poor Proudfute. "I do not remember it, but I know