The crowd, of course, first cheer, and then
chaff as usual, as he picks up his hat and begins handling the sticks to
see which will suit him.
"Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he arra daay," says his
companion to the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of
nineteen or twenty. Willum's sweetheart is in the "veast" somewhere, and
has strictly enjoined him not to get his head broke at back-swording, on
pain of her highest displeasure; but as she is not to be seen (the women
pretend not to like to see the backsword play, and keep away from the
stage), and as his hat is decidedly getting old, he chucks it on to the
stage, and follows himself, hoping that he will only have to break other
people's heads, or that, after all, Rachel won't really mind.
Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gipsy, poaching,
loafing fellow, who travels the Vale not for much good, I fancy:
"For twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected,"
in fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy
castor of Joe Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of
the neighbourhood, a well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight or
thereabouts, and a great strapping fellow, with his full allowance of
bluster. This is a capital show of gamesters, considering the amount
of the prize; so, while they are picking their sticks and drawing their
lots, I think I must tell you, as shortly as I can, how the noble old
game of back-sword is played; for it is sadly gone out of late, even in
the Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.
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