“Oh, royal Edmund, son of Edward Third,----” “You lie.” said Jack, “he’s the fourth son.” “Who spoke?” “I did.” “Wilt be whipp’d, boy?” “Ay--when thou goest a week without.” “He can do it! He can do it!” cried Shallow. “Go on with the verses, Master Skogan,” said the bystanders. “He is but young.” “True. Boy, another time----” “‘Though fourth in line--” “I told him so,” said Jack. “He steals my very words.” “How now? cock-sparrow!” “How now? hen-gull!” “Send thy father here for a cudgelling.” “He sent me here to look for one,” said Jack, “and I am not to go away without seeing one given.” “Take care, lad,” said Skogan, raising his stick. Jack, seizing a cudgel from a bystander, knocked it out of his hand; and, following the movement up with a smart tingling blow across the bully’s face, threw off his doublet nimbly and claimed a ring. Skogan declined the combat on the score of his adversary’s youth. “Here’s a fellow!” said Jack. “I heard him, drunk, last night challenge a score men--knowing well not one of them knew the use of a cudgel: now, sober, he fears to meet a boy who does.” “You must needs give him a lesson, Skogan,” suggested a bystander, who was rather tired of waiting for the princes and wanted some amusement; “or farewell to your repute.” “Then just one bout to silence him,” said Skogan, stripping. [Illustration: 067] The lists were soon formed and orthodox weapons provided. The combatants took their places. Master Skogan convulsed the bystanders by pretending to be terribly frightened. He shook all over in the most humorous manner; rejected half-a-dozen cudgels as not stout enough for so terrible an occasion; affected to look for a soft place to tumble upon; and hoped that some kind gentleman would have compassion on his wife and family in case of fatal accidents. The cudgel play commenced, and the spectators still laughed; but the mortifying conviction was soon forced upon Skogan that they were no longer laughing with, but at him. The poet had assumed a nonchalant patronising air, as who should say, “We will get this ridiculous business swiftly and mercifully over,” which Jack imitated to the life, continuing, indeed, to burlesque every one of his adversary’s movements throughout the encounter. Our hero parried every blow, easily. Skogan’s jaunty smile deepened into rather an ill-favoured grin. He had made the serious mistake of underrating his opponent’s powers. Jack, on the other hand, had well calculated the weight of the peril he was incurring, and now brought all his nerve, muscle, and intellect to bear in meeting it. He depended on a chance for a peculiar stroke--one of Wat Smith’s teaching--of which he had seen Skogan to be ignorant. An opportunity for this offered itself. It was seized like lightning. A sharp ringing sound was heard. Skogan let fall his sword-arm, put his left hand up to his brow, and tried an unconcerned smile, as though the thing were a mere nothing, in the midst of which