Britton in His Glory Again.—The Song and the Legal Functionary.—The
Surprise.
The deadly hatred which Learmont felt for Sir Francis Hartleton was a
mild feeling in comparison with that of the same nature which began to
engross the entire mind of Andrew Britton. Learmont he did certainly,
from the bottom of his heart, dislike; Jacob Gray he detested and hated
most cordially; but under the circumstances in which he was placed, he
had come to consider them both as out of reach of any species of
revenge he would feel gratified in having upon them. Besides he looked
upon them both as mixed up with himself in the various occurrences that
had shaped the whole of his existence, and he began to think Learmont a
poor creature, useful only to supply his extravagancies, and Jacob Gray
as a kind of necessary or, at least, inevitable evil to be endured, as
far as his existence went, with much the same feelings as he would put
up with the disagreeables of the changing seasons, or some other bodily
ailment it was in vain to fight against.
But Sir Francis Hartleton, what had he to do with the affair? And yet
was he not perpetually thrusting himself forward in the most
disagreeable manner, and thwarting him, Britton, at the most
inauspicious moment, and in the manner calculated, of all others, to
aggravate him—namely, by an exercise of personal strength?
When Britton was in that intermediate stage of intoxication which
influenced his passions, he would dash his fist upon the table, and
call down curses upon the head of his enemy, as terrible and fierce in
their language as they were violent and outrageous in manner. Bond, the
butcher, was his great companion on all such occasions, and no one was
better calculated than that individual to second Britton in any word or
deed of violence.
Britton had his usual large party at the Chequers, while Jacob Gray was
being hunted through Westminster by the extremely officious shoemaker.
His friend the butcher sat by his side, and whenever Britton roared out
an oath, Master Bond was sure to cap it by some other of the most
unique character.
The time was past midnight, and yet there was the rattling of
glasses—the thumping of tankards—the shouts—screams—laughter and oaths
of the motley assembly, proceeding in full vigour.
The landlord, when Westminster Abbey chimes struck the half hour past
twelve, rushed into the room with a bland smile, after relieving his
mind at the door by a hearty curse, and approaching Britton, he said,—
“Might I be so bold as to remind your most worshipful majesty that it
is now half-past twelve?”
“No, you might not,” roared Britton; “what’s time to me, I should like
to know? Are you king of the Chequers, or am I?”
“With humble submission to your majesty, of course your majesty is king
of the Chequers, but your highness must be aware that the magistrates
are dreadfully jealous of a poor fellow keeping his house open so late.”
“I suppose you may open as early as you like?” roared Britton.
“Certainly, your highness’s grace.”
“Very well; if any one comes to say a word, tell him you shut up at
twelve, and open again at half-past. Do you hear, noodle, eh?”
“Do you hear his majesty’s suggestion?” said the landlord, “was there
ever such a head piece?”
“No, never. Hurrah!” shouted the guests.
“His gracious majesty’s health,” said a man rising at the further end
of the room; “and may I be butchered if he ain’t a out and outer.”
“What do you mean by may you be butchered?” said Bond.
“No reflection upon you, good Master Bond,” said the man; “I only—that
is, I meant nothing.”
“Then don’t do it again,” said Bond, making three strides towards the
man, and knocking his head against the wainscot till the lights danced
again in his eyes.
That was just the kind of thing to arouse Britton, and he roared with
laughter at the faces the man mad.
“Is a man,” remarked the butcher, “to have his trade, let it be ever so
respectable, throwed slap in his face?”
“Bravo!” cried Britton; “well, landlord, bring us another bowl. Quick!”
“Yes, your majesty. Oh, he’s a wonderful man—I mean king. What a
head-piece, my masters—if there’s any difficulty to be overcome, ask
King Britton, and you have an answer pat at once—a most astonishing
monarch he is, to be sure.”
“Well, who the devil are you?” said Britton, as a stranger entered the
room.
“An’ it please you, sir, a serving man.”
“A serving man! Whom do you serve—eh?”
“The worshipful Sir Francis Hartleton, hard by.”
“Take that then,” said Britton, flinging a pewter measure at the poor
fellow’s head, which luckily missed him; “how dare you come here, you
sneaking spy?”
The man made a precipitate retreat, and when the landlord came with a
steaming bowl of punch, Britton with an oath exclaimed,—
“Haven’t I told you that I would have none of that Hartleton’s people
here?”
“Your majesty certainly was so gracious as to say so, but he, whom your
grace has so very judiciously turned out, tells me he has only been for
a day in his service, so, your highness, I knew him not as he passed
in.”
“Sharpen your wits, then,” said Britton, throwing the remnants of the
butcher’s flagon of strong ale in the landlord’s face.
“Oh, what a wit he has!”
“Curse Hartleton—curse him!” growled Britton.
“So say I,” said the butcher. “He has twice sent some one to condemn my
scales.”
“Sing us a song, somebody,” cried Britton. “A song I say, I say. Do you
hear!”
“Gentlemen—gentlemen—a song from some of you, if you please,” cried the
landlord, bustling among the guests. “You hear that his majesty is
musically inclined.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said a small man, with a twisted lace coat, “I don’t
mind if I try my hand at a stave.”
There was a great thumping of tankards upon the tables, and cries of
“Bravo!” in the middle of which the man who had volunteered the song
commenced in a wheezing tone as follows:—
The Triple Tree
“Of all the trees that’s in the land,
There’s none like that I wot of;
The blossoms big upon this tree
Ne’er hang until they rot off.
But if it bloom at morning’s dawn,
The fruit’s so ripe and brown,
That when an hour has passed away,
We always cut it down,
Hurrah, boys!”
“Silence!” roared Britton, as the man was about to commence the second
verse of his song. “What the devil’s song do you call that?”
“The Triple Tree.”
“And what may that be?”
“The gallows,” said the man, emphatically.
“Then who the devil are you?”
“The hangman!”
All shrunk from the man as he announced his calling; and for a minute
or two a ghastly sallow paleness came over Britton’s face.
“Very well, gentleman,” said the hangman, “if you don’t like my song,
you needn’t have the remainder of it I, am sure.”
Britton rose from his seat in a menacing attitude as he said,—
“Now, may I be smashed if ever I met with such assurance in all my
life. You horrid—you infernal—”
“My good fellow, don’t put yourself in a passion,” said the hangman.
“I’ve come all the way from Smithfield to see you.”
“See me?”
“Yes. I heard of you, and I came to take your weight in my eye—you
understand. It will require a good piece of hemp to hold you up. You
are bony, and that always weighs heavy. Good night—I’ll drop in again
some evening.”
With these words the functionary of the law was off before Britton
could make a rush at him, which he was just recovering sufficiently
from his surprise to enable him to do.
As it was, when he found the hangman had fairly escaped him, he looked
round him like some wild animal just turned out of a cage, and glaring
about to seek for some enemy upon whom to wreak his pent-up vengeance.
“He ain’t far off, I’ll be bound,” cried the butcher, “I dare say he’s
waiting outside.”
Britton upon this suggestion rushed from the room, and was at the
street-door in a moment. There was a man shrinking just within the
doorway, and without further examination, Britton seized him with both
hands, and found himself face to face with Jacob Gray.