erbusses, Pistols and Hangers; but had they worn all the
weapons in the Horse Armoury in the Tower, it would not have saved them
from shivering in their shoes when "Hard and sharp" was the word, and
an encounter with the terrible Blacks had to be endured. We should have
made mince-meat of them all, and perhaps hanged up one or two of them
outside the inn as an extra signpost. But we were not only unarmed, we
were overmatched, my hearties. There were the Redcoats, burn them! How
many times in my life have I been foiled and baffled by those miscreated
men-machines in scarlet blanketing! No use in a stout Heart, no use in a
strong Hand, no use in a sharp Sword, or a pair of barkers with teeth
that never fail, when you have to do with a Soldier. Do! What are you to
do with him? There he is, with his shaven face and his hair powdered, as
if he were going to a fourpenny fandango at Bagnigge Wells. There he is,
as obstinate as a Pig, and as firm as a Rock, with his confounded bright
firelock, bayonet, and crossbelts. There he is, immoveable and
unconquerable, defying the boldest of Smugglers, the bravest of
Gentlemen Rovers, and, by the Lord Harry, _he eats you up_. Always give
the Redcoats a wide berth, my dear, and the Grenadiers more than all.

Unequal as were the odds, with all these Roaring Dragons in scarlet
baize on our trail, we had still a most desperate fight for it. While
the mob of Constables kept cowering in the bar-room down-stairs, crying
out to us to surrender in the King's name,--I believe that one poor
creature, the Justice of Peace, after getting himself well walled up in
a corner with chairs and tables, began to quaver out the King's
Proclamation against the Blacks,--the plaguy Soldiers came blundering up
both pair of stairs, and fell upon us Billy Boys tooth and nail. 'Slid!
my blood simmers when I think of it. Over went the tables and settles!
Smash went trenchers and cups and glasses! Clink-a-clink went
sword-blades and bayonets! "And don't fire, my lads!" cries out the
Soldier-officer to his Grannies. "We want all these rogues to hang up at
Aylesbury Gaol."

"Rogue yourself, and back to your Mother!" cries Captain Night, very
pale; but I never saw him look Bolder or Handsomer. "Rogue in your
Tripes, you Hanover Rat!" and he shortens his sword and rushes on the
Soldier-officer.

The Grenadier Captain was brave enough, but he was but a smockfaced lad
fresh from the Mall and St. James's Guard-room, and h