ow; no man shall
sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here's a glass of Nantz;
we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make
ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I'll put your lungs in
play for you presently. In the meantime--charge, pals, charge--a toast,
a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are
surprised--this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley,
heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say,
shall we not drink a bumper to his health?"

Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by
surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and
summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but
when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his
pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his
power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye
was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.

Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.

"This ain't true, sure_ly_?" asked the perplexed Magus.

"He has said it," replied Luke; "I may not deny it."

This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the
crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.

"Sir Luke Rookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as
Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. "Upon my soul I sincerely
congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky
myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one
Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and _he_ never left
anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a
hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of
drinking your health and prosperity."

Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.

Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise
of a song.

"True, true," replied Dick; "I have not forgotten it. Stand to your
bows, my hearties."

THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY

Now Oliver[78] puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim[79] is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman[80] gone,
His matchless cherry-black[81] prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol[82] by his side, and his pops[83] in his pocket.

CH