Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s
Amusements.
Britton’s rage at the escape of Gray from his room, where he thought he
had him so securely, almost made him sober for the next four-and-twenty
hours. He was in too great a passion to drink, and it was not until his
friend the butcher had generously drunk both Britton’s share and his
own of sundry strong compounds, that the smith, dashing his clenched
first upon the table with a blow that made every article upon it jump
again, exclaimed,—
“Brandy—brandy here. Quick with you.”
“Your majesty shall have it in a moment,” cried the landlord; “may I
presume to ask if your majesty will have it raw or mixed?”
“Neither,” roared Britton.
“Neither? Oh dear me. Certainly—perhaps your majesty means a little of
both?”
“No, I don’t, fool! Bring me a pint of brandy boiling.”
“B—b—b—boiling?”
“Yes.”
“Without any water?”
“What do I want with water. For the future I’ll drink nothing but
boiling brandy.”
“Smash me,” remarked Bond, the butcher, “if that ain’t a good idea.”
“Off with you,” roared Britton, to the amazed landlord. “Mind you bring
it in with the bubbles on it. Let me see the hot steam rising from
it—like—like reeking blood, and be d—d to you—take that.”
As these remarks were accompanied by a pint measure, which passed
within an inch of his head, the landlord made a wild kind of rush from
the room shouting,—
“Brandy boiling—brandy boiling directly, for his majesty King Britton.”
Britton felt himself wonderfully better and much appeased in spirit
after his order of the boiling brandy, and he turned to the butcher
with something of his usual manner, saying,—
“Bond, my boy, I shall never be the man I was till I have taken that
fellow’s life.”
“You don’t say so?” remarked Bond.
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, be bothered; you’ll be able to drink as much as ever, I know.”
“Yes as to that—but,—”
“Well, what more do you wish? Don’t be unreasonable—joint me with a
notched cleaver if I don’t think you are the most comfortable cove as I
knows, and lots of money and nothing for to do but to melt it down into
all sorts o’ strong drinks. I calls that being in heaven, I does.”
“It’s something,” said Britton.
“Something? I believe you it is. Why, if you was an angel, what more
could you have, I should like to know?”
“Jacob Gray’s blood.”
“So you will, but you must wait your time. Now I tell you what, Master
Britton; you’re like a pig as is going to be stuck—he makes a squalling
when he knows as it won’t do no good, and here you’ve been a denying of
yourself your proper drink when you know that’ll do no good. Have
patience till this ’ere follow as you owes sich a uncommon grudge to,
comes in your way again, and when he does, don’t you let him out of
arm’s length. Just give him a malleter on the head to stun him, while
you fetches me, and then we can cut him up quite comfortable.”
“I was a fool to leave him a moment,” said Britton; “I ought to have
known better. The fellow is as crafty as a dozen devils rolled and
welded all into one. He has as many shiftings and doublings as a hunted
fox.”
“Some animals is very difficult,” said Bond, “to bring to the
slaughter. A ring in his nose, and a rope is the very best thing, but
it’s difficult to put it on.”
“You are an ass, Bond,” said Britton, “it ain’t a bullock, you idiot,
but as crafty a man as ever stepped.”
“Perhaps I is a ass,” remarked Bond. “Birds of a feather they always
flocks together, which I take it, is the reason why us two makes such
good company, Master Britton.”
The landlord at this moment made his appearance, with the boiling
brandy in a punch-bowl. At least, the landlord was supposed to follow
it into the room; for the steam that arose from the liquor hid his face
in a kind of glory, such as sometimes may be seen in an old picture
confounding the physiognomy of a saint.
He said nothing, but laid the streaming beverage before Britton, and
then he coughed, and winked, and wiped his eyes, and sneezed, all of
which symptoms of uneasiness arose from the subtle particles of the
evaporating spirit having nearly suffocated him.
“What do you mean by all that?” said Britton.
“Ah, what do you mean?” roared Bond, giving the landlord a smack on the
back that nearly felled him.
“The—the steam of brandy is rather—a—chew—, a—a—a—chew. Bless me, I
can’t help sneezing—a—chew—strong—very—strong. I shouldn’t wonder if
it’s very good for the eyes, it makes ’em water so. What an idea—boiled
brandy!”
“Oh, you think it’s a good idea, do you?” said Britton, as he ladled up
a brimmer of the scalding-hot spirit.
“Uncommonly good—chew.”
“Leave off that sneezing, will you?”
“I really can’t—a—chew. Excuse me, your majesty, but we never had such
a thing as boiled brandy ordered at the Chequers before.”
“Oh, indeed; then you shall have a drop. Come drink, this—drink I say.”
“Really, I—I—”
“You won’t!”
“I don’t presume to use such an expression in reference to any command
from your majesty, but the truth is—I would rather not.”
“But I say you shall.”
“Spare me, your majesty; I am rather weak in the head.”
“Hold him, Bond, while I pour it down his throat,” cried Britton.
The landlord groaned—“If I must take a small sip, why I would rather
take it myself.”
“Toss it off, then, at once; and don’t be making those faces. Come,
now, off with it.”
The landlord was perfectly well aware that no mortal throat could with
impunity swallow the scalding liquor to trickle down it; and, in fact,
he had been pleasing himself with the idea of how scalded the smith
would be if, with his usual precipitancy, he should take a gulp of the
liquor; but now that it came to his turn first, the joke altered its
complexion altogether, and his hand trembled as he held the ladle to
his mouth.
“Quick,” roared Britton; and the unfortunate landlord took a small sip,
which went down his throat like a small globule of melted lead, and
induced him to make such wry faces and contortions as quite delighted
Andrew Britton, who, in the enjoyment of the moment, actually forgot
Jacob Gray.
How long the landlord’s sufferings might have been protracted it is
hard to say; but fortunately for him, in the midst of Britton’s high
enjoyment of the scene, a boy came into the room, and screamed out,
without the least reverence for the kingly dignity that the smith had
assumed at the Chequers,—
“Is Andrew Britton here?”
“Halloo, you villain,” cried Britton, “what do you mean?”
“I wants Andrew Britton,” cried the boy.
“You scoundrel!”
“You’re another!”
Britton’s face assumed a purplish hue with rage, but he was silent, and
then beckoning to the boy, he whispered to Bond,—
“I’ll scald him from top to toe.”
“Don’t you wish you may catch me,” cried the boy, “hilloo, old read
face. Look at your nose. I want Andrew Britton.”
“Oh, you villain,” cried the landlord, “how dare you behave so? What do
you want with the gentleman you have named?”
“I’ve got a letter for him—where is he? I suppose as he’ll give me a
penny.”
Britton slowly rose from his seat and began sidling round the table
towards the boy; who, however, was far too quick and agile for the
bulky smith, and throwing a folded piece of paper upon the floor, he
darted to the door, crying—
“Don’t you wish it, old guts; you’ll make yourself ill if you exert
yourself so. Good-bye.”
“Hold him,” cried Britton to the landlord, who made a futile, and not
very energetic, attempt to detain the boy, who was out of the house in
a moment, and in the next a stone came through a pane of glass and hit
the landlord upon the side of the head.
“Oh, the vagabond,” said mine host, making a rush to the door, and
fully participating in Britton’s indignation now that he had himself
cause of complaint; but Britton intercepted him, and being resolved to
have revenge upon somebody, he knocked the landlord’s head against the
door-post, with a rap that made him look confused for a moment, and
then retire from the room dancing with pain.
“All right,” cried Bond.
“Aham!” said Britton, returning to his seat. “That’ll teach him to run
against me another time, and if I meet that boy, I’ll wring his neck.”
“What’s this here?” remarked the butcher, as he picked up the note the
lad had thrown down. “‘To Andrew Britten,’ that’s large, but hang me if
I can make out the rest. The first word is sensible enough, howsomever.”
“What is it?”
“Meat.”
“Meat? Nonsense. What the devil have I to do with meat? Give it to me.”
Britton snatched the note from the hands of the butcher, and read as
follows:—
“Meet me by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at Buckingham Gate.”
L.
“Short and civil—I’ll see him d—d first—nine o’clock too? A likely
hour—no Master Learmont, I’ll call upon you when I please, no oftener
and no seldomer; but I won’t meet you at Buckingham Gate, as sure as my
name’s Andrew Britton. Am I to be dictated to?”
“I should think not,” cried Bond. “Does that come from the squire, eh,
Britton?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Nothing at all, but I asked you, nevertheless, and you needn’t put
yourself out of the way.”
“You he hanged.”
“Be hanged yourself.”
Britton liked Bond principally because when he roared at him, he was
replied to much in the same strain, and, if possible, an octave-higher,
so he betrayed no indignation at the independence of the butcher, but
taking up a ladle full of the brandy, which had now much cooled, he
poured it down his throat, and then, followed it by another, after
which he flung the ladle at the head of a quiet-looking man who was
smoking a pipe and drinking a pint of small ale in a corner, and
rising, he cried—
“I’ll go out now—order my sedan chair—I’ll be hanged but that’s the
rummiest thing ever was invented; I like it. My chair, there.
Halloo—halloo; I’ll have some fun to-night.”
“But you needn’t have thrown away the ladle, you beast,” remarked Bond,
as he took the bowl in his hand and finished the contents at one
draught, hot and strong as they were.
The landlords voice was now heard shouting—
“His majesty’s chair—quick—quick. His majesty’s chair, and right glad
am I to get him out of the house awhile,” he added to himself; “and if
it was not that he spends every week a matter of ten or twelve guineas
at the Old Chequers, I’d never let the beast cross its threshold again.”