“Yea, if it please you.” “‘Tis the more time thou wert used.” Master Shallow was in ecstacies. The practical joke of sending a man to the wars against his will had already tickled the excellent justice’s sense of humour. But to make a verbal jest on his calamity to his very face, and on his own name, was irresistible. “Ha! ha! ha! most excellent i’ faith! Things that are mouldy lack use. Very singular, good. Well said, Sir John. Very well said.” “Prick him,” said Sir John. And down went a mark against Mouldy’s name, making him as much the King’s property as though he had been honestly bought by a sergeant’s shilling. Mouldy grumbled like a malcontent as he was. He thought that he might have been let alone. “My old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery. You need not to have pricked me: there are other men fitter to go than I.” As if that were a reason for your not going! For shame, Mouldy! Simon Shadow was the next called. “Aye, marry, let me have him to sit under,” said Sir John, “he’s like to be a cold soldier.” Shadow was approved and pricked. “Thomas Wart!” “Where’s he?” “Here, sir!” “Is thy name Wart.” (Sir John Falstaff was the questioner.) “Yes, Sir?” “Thou art a very ragged Wart.” “Shall I prick him down, Sir John?” “It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins. Prick him no more.” Renewed ecstacies of Mr. Justice Shallow. His worship had always considered a ragged man a most laughable object. But the matter had never been represented to him in such a truly ridiculous light as by his facetious guest. “Ha! ha! ha! You can do it, Sir, you can do it. I commend you well. Francis Feeble.” “Here, Sir.” “What trade art thou, Feeble?” Sir John asked. “A woman’s tailor, Sir.” “Shall I prick him. Sir?” “You may; but if he had been a man’s tailor, he would have pricked you.” Feeble was approved and pricked. He was the only one who appeared to submit to the operation without wincing. Feeble proved the most valiant ninth part of a recruit on record. He appeared delighted with his prospects. The only drawback to his military ardour and satisfaction was a regret that Wart could not be permitted to accompany him. This makes it difficult to decide whether Wart was his bosom friend or his mortal enemy. “I would Wart might have gone, Sir,” quoth Feeble. “I would thou wert a man’s tailor,” replied the Captain, “that thou might’st mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private soldier that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.” Feeble was satisfied. So, no doubt, was Wart. “Peter Bullcalf of the Green,” was the next called. “Trust me, a likely fellow,” said the Knight: “prick me Bullcalf till he roar again.” “Oh good my lord Captain----” Bullcalf roared without waiting for the operation. “What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?”