“There’s little time to be lost, Bunce:  if we don’t set to work at once, we needn’t set to work at all.  Speak out, man! will you join us, now or never, to save the young fellow?”

With something like desperation in his manner, as if he scrupled to commit himself too far, yet had the will to contribute considerably to the object, the pedler replied:—­

“Save the young fellow? well, I guess I will, if you’ll jest say what’s to be done.  I’ll lend a hand, to be sure, if there’s no trouble to come of it.  He’s a likely chap, and not so stiff neither, though I did count him rather high-headed at first; but after that, he sort a smoothed down, and now I don’t know nobody I’d sooner help jest now out of the slush:  but I can’t see how we’re to set about it.”

“Can you fight, Bunce?  Are you willing to knock down and drag out, when there’s need for it?”

“Why, if I was fairly listed, and if so be there’s no law agin it.  I don’t like to run agin the law, no how; and if you could get a body clear on it, why, and there’s no way to do the thing no other how, I guess I shouldn’t stand too long to consider when it’s to help a friend.”

“It may be no child’s play, Bunce, and there must be stout heart and free hand.  One mustn’t stop for trifles in such cases; and, as for the law, when a man’s friend’s in danger, he must make his own law.”

“That wan’t my edication, no how; my principles goes agin it.  I must think about it.  I must have a little time to consider.”  But the landlord saw no necessity for consideration, and, fearful that the scruples of Bunce would be something too strong, he proceeded to smooth away the difficulty.

“After all, Bunce, the probability is, we shall be able to manage the affair without violence:  so we shall try, for I like blows just as little as anybody else; but it’s best, you know, to make ready for the worst.  Nobody knows how things will turn up; and if it comes to the scratch, why, one mustn’t mind knocking a fellow on the head if he stands in the way.”

“No, to be sure not.  ’Twould be foolish to stop and think about what’s law, and what’s not law, and be knocked down yourself.”

“Certainly, you’re right, Bunce; that’s only reason.”

“And yet, mister, I guess you wouldn’t want that I should know your raal name, now, would you? or maybe you’re going to tell it to me now?  Well—­”

“To the business:  what matters it whether I have a name or not?  I have a fist, you see, and—­”

“Yes, yes, I see,” exclaimed he of the notions, slightly retreating, as Munro, suiting the action to the word, thrust, rather more closely to the face of his companion than was altogether encouraging, the ponderous mass which courtesy alone would consider a fist—­

“Well, I don’t care, you see, to know the name, mister; but somehow it raally aint the thing, no how, to be mistering nobody knows who.  I see you aint a woman plain enough from your face, and I pretty much conclude you must be a man; though you have got on—­what’s that, now?  It’s a kind of calico, I guess; but them’s not fast colors, friend.  I should say, now, you had been taken in pretty much by that bit of goods.  It aint the kind of print, now, that’s not afeard of washing.”