“No, I do not like it,” replied Knobkerry, shaking his head. “Steamious Kettlewatch! Here is a rogue’s name for those who are up in the world! But why do we stand here to make an easy target? Take him by the knees, good Master MontGoatee, while I lift him by the shoulders, and let us lay him in his house. This will be a rare shock to poor Sir Bulltongue, he will look the colour of paper and incant like a windmill.”
They took up the old tridentblaster, and carried him between them into his house, where he had dwelt alone. And there they laid him on the floor, out of regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to straighten and compose his rigid limbs.
Leatherchunk’s house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table in the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier’s armoury of tridents and defensive armour. Knobkerry began to look about him curiously.