CHAPTER VII.
This quarrel may draw blood another day.
Henry IV.

Part I.
The conclave of citizens appointed to meet for investigating the affray of the preceding evening had now assembled.

The workroom of Simon Glover was filled to crowding by personages of no little consequence, some of whom wore black velvet cloaks, and gold chains around their necks.
They were, indeed, the fathers of the city; and there were bailies and deacons in the honoured number.

There was an ireful and offended air of importance upon every brow as they conversed together, rather in whisper than aloud or in detail.

Busiest among the busy, the little important assistant of the previous night, Oliver Proudfute by name, and bonnet maker by profession, was bustling among the crowd, much after the manner of the seagull, which flutters, screams, and sputters most at the commencement of a gale of wind, though one can hardly conceive what the bird has better to do than to fly to its nest and remain quiet till the gale is over.
Be that as it may, Master Proudfute was in the midst of the crowd, his fingers upon every one's button and his mouth in every man's ear, embracing such as were near to his own stature, that he might more closely and mysteriously utter his sentiments; and standing on tiptoe, and supporting himself by the cloak collars of tall men, that he might dole out to them also the same share of information.