“Whenever I quarrel, I fight,” pursued Darby; “and whenever I fight with Mrs. Doherty, she licks me; I'd scorn to be beat by any man breathing; I'll crow like a bit of game as I am, though I've lost half my spurs, but I don't scruple to own, that I knock under to my wife:--so we paid what we couldn't well afford for a bed,---quarrelled and fought all night in it, when we might have slept happy and contented under a tree; and the next morning,--that's this morning,--I tould her, when she was dreaming, to come after me to the revel by her own self; and so she will, I'll engage my last arm; for, if we fight, Mistress Doherty doats on me.” “And who is this child?” inquired Archibald. “Your worship,” replied the pedlar; “I hae held my peace till now, and it is time for me to speak. This wee thing cam' to us where we breakfasted; we ken nought about her; she wanted to come to this revel, and we hae brought her together.--She would hae parted with us, but neither of us would suffer her to do so, without letting us know whither she went; a small broil followed, and here we are before ye;--we've done nought but what humanity would justify;--tak' the bairn and question her. She's in your hands, and I've done with her--saving a blessing--Gude protact her!” “Oh! don't think to gallyboozle the justice with your mealy mouth,” said Darby; “I've no great opinion of my friend here, your honour; no, nor of Tom Tinker, this fellow with the black face, as I had the honour of telling ye before. Now, if I may be allowed to say one word in my defence,--though nobody accuses me, nor can, that's more,--but if I may speak, I'll just say this by way of advice to your worship:--make yourself a Solomon the second; cut off the child's hair, take every ha'p'orth she has, and then see who'll have her: it isn't the tinker, I'll engage; no, nor the pedlar, with his blackguard red herrings.” “I dinna want the bairn,” said the pedlar; “I hae eleven o' my ain; but I'd do to anither mon's child, what I'd expact anither, mon would do to mine,--that is to say--sauf her fra tinklers and ne'er-do-weels.” “Come, come, pedlar, 'ware that,” growled the tinker; “good words or broken heads, says the old saying.” “Hold your tongue, you reprobate!” exclaimed Sir Waldron. “Silence!” roared Batter in the tinker's ear, while Quality dealt him an apothegm. “What you want with the child I cannot comprehend,” continued Sir Waldron; “why not take one of those poor things, of whom you're the putative father? that would do you a little credit--Why wish for this little stranger?” “Why, your worship”--The tinker was cut short in his reply to the magistrate's question, by Batter shouting silence, and Quality giving him a nudge.