u had best be civil, and let us shoot
a head, clear of you."

Whether the young squire misinterpreted my uncle's desire of peace,
or was enraged at the fate of his hounds beyond his usual pitch
of resolution, I know not; but he snatched a flail from one of his
followers, and came up with a show of assaulting the lieutenant, who,
putting himself in a posture of defence, proceeded thus: "Lookee, you
lubberly son of a w--e, if you come athwart me, 'ware your gingerbread
work. I'll be foul of your quarter, d--n me."

This declaration, followed by a flourish of his hanger, seemed to check
the progress of the young gentleman's choler, who, looking behind him,
perceived his attendants had slunk into the house, shut the gate, and
left him to decide the contention by himself.

Here a parley ensued, which was introduced by my cousin's asking, "Who
the devil are you? What do you want? Some scoundrel of a seaman, I
suppose, who has deserted and turned thief. But don't think you shall
escape, sirrah--I'll have you hang'd, you dog, I will. Your blood shall
pay for that of my two hounds, you ragamuffin. I would not have parted
with them to save your whole generation from the gallows, you ruffian,
you!" "None of your jaw, you swab--none of your jaw," replied my uncle,
"else I shall trim your laced jacket for you. I shall rub you down with
an oaken towel, my boy, I shall." So saying, he sheathed his hanger, and
grasped his cudgel. Meanwhile the people of the house being alarmed,
one of my female cousins opened a window, and asked what was the matter.
"The matter!" answered the lieutenant; "no great matter, young woman;
I have business with the old gentleman, and this spark, belike, won't
allow me to come alongside of him," that's all. After a few minutes
pause we were admitted, and conducted to my grandfather's chamber
through a lane of my relations, who honoured me with very significant
looks as I passed along. When we came into the judge's presence my
uncle, after two or three sea-bows, expressed himself in this manner;
"Your servant, your servant. What cheer, father? what cheer? I suppose
you don't know me--mayhap you don't. My name is Tom Bowling, and this
here boy, you look as if you did not know him neither; 'tis like you
mayn't. He's new rigged, i'faith; his cloth don't shake in the wind so
much as it wont to do. 'Tis my nephew, d'y see, Roderick Random--your
own flesh and blood, old gentleman. Don't lay a-stern, you dog," pull