He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much, and calling for another tankard, he shouted—
“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”
The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone—
“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”
“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.
“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.”
“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”
Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.
“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”
“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.
“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”
“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”
“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love—here I am.”
The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it.
The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?”
“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”
The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed—
“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”
“That’s true,” said Britton.
“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.”
“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.
This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.
“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat.
“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare.
“So he is,” cried several voices.
“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.
“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth.
“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.
After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with.
This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.
“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”
The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast—
“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”
The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms—
“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”
The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.
“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”
The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said—
“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”
“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”
The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains—
“Care mantles not in brimming cups,
It cannot enter there;
Within the bowl there’s nought but joy,
Without, but grim despair.
“Hurrah, boys!
“Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why?
Because its blushing hue
Forbids the fiend to enter there,
Lest he be lost to view.
“Hurrah, boys!
“Drink—drink, and let the gushing stream
Of life boil through our veins,
While sober fools seek chill content,
And find care for their pains.
“Hurrah, boys!
“They lie who say that rosy wine
Can ever breed a pain,
For when the joy of one day’s o’er,
We drink and live again.
“Hurrah, boys!
“They tell us that when once the fire
Of wine has gone away,
Our hearts will beat in dull despair,
Nor be so calm as they.
“Hurrah, boys!
“But