Now my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn't bred upon the roads, can scratch a little, so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain--she couldn't bear to see her partner murdered--and scratched the villain's face.

Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of the cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade:--Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it--for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife)-- _Myself_ .-- Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good.

Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play.
_Tinker_ .-- That's true, young man; here's to you--where was I?
Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair.

Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything--everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll's claws.

"Hold!" I shouted.