CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.
When Britton fled in sudden fright from the low wall by Millbank, he took his rout up Abingdon-street, and turning into the first house of entertainment he saw, he ordered a quantity of brandy that made the landlady stare again; but when he lifted the measure to his mouth, and then after a dead silence of about a minute, laid it down empty, the aforesaid landlady’s eyes became much larger than before, and she looked again and again in the measure, as if she imagined the brandy might still be only lurking in some corner, and would suddenly make its appearance again.
When Britton then struck his own head, which he did with his clenched fist, the landlady gave a great jump, and exclaimed,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
“I am a fool! An ass!” cried Britton. “To be scared by a shadow—curses! What’s to pay, woman? Don’t stand staring at me!”
“You—you’ve had a—pint, sir,” gasped the alarmed landlady.
“Take your money out of that, and be quick,” cried Britton, throwing down a guinea, the ring of which on a little bit of marble, which the landlady kept behind the bar door, being quite satisfactory, she turned round to hand her customer his change, but to her surprise he was gone.
Half maddened by rage and drink together, Britton now rushed back to where he had left Maud; but both she and Sir Frederick, from the pace at which they had immediately left the place, were out of sight and hearing; muttering, therefore, imprecations on his own head, the smith returned towards Westminster in a fit mood for anything.
“Fool that I am!” he roared, for the tremendous dose of brandy he had taken made him quite reckless of who might be within hearing. “Idiot! I who have made the clang of my hammer heard by midnight, when within a dozen paces of me was a—sight—sight that would—d—n the lights! They stand in my eyes—and the houses are toppling. Fool—fool to let her go. Would Jacob Gray have done as much? No, no, not he. It was the idiot Britton. Oh, if I could find them out—Gray and the boy—ay, the boy—I’d dash his brains out against Gray’s politic skull. Curses on them all. The—the very pavement is mocking me. The houses reel, and the lamps seem—dance—dancing—from earth to sky—as if they were all mad. It’s to annoy me—I know it is.”
He reeled on, the liquor he had drunk so recklessly each moment exerting greater effect upon him. The few chance passengers whom he met heard his wild ravings before he reached them, and some had the prudence to cross to the other side of the street, while others would stand in a doorway until the evidently furious man had gone past them.
One watchman, who had just awakened from a sound nap, and walked out of his box, eager to show his efficiency upon somebody, had the temerity to hold up his lantern in Britton’s face, and make the simple and innocent remark of—
“Hilloa, friend!”
Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.
This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!” but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in Abingdon-street.
In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.
The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman when there was nobody to apprehend.
In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.
The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.
“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising.
“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it.
“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”
“Who’s here, King?”
“Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey coat?”
“The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?”
“Ay, the same: do you know him?”
“No, no, your Majesty.”
“So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?”
“Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!”
“What’s that you mutter?”
“I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your worship.”
“Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?”
“I—I—really don’t know.”
At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—
“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.”
“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”
“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man.
“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—”
“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.
“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”
“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”
“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”
“You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely.
“Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic regard of the politic host.
“I an idiot!” he exclaimed. “Well, I never heard the like of that before. I tell you what it is, master landlord, I—I—I won’t drink any more of your ale—d—e!”
“You—you can’t drink much, you wretched little midge,” said Britton.
“Sir,” cried the little man, giving his hat a fierce cock. “Sir, I never enter your house again, and my wife shall get her rations from the Blue Cat and Frying Pan, or the Crocodile and Crumpet, d—e!”
The landlord now winked so dreadfully and so incessantly, that it seemed quite doubtful whether or not he would ever leave off again; but the little man was not to be winked into good-humour, and shook his head in great indignation.
Britton reeled towards the bar, exclaiming, “Give me a half-pint measure, and if I don’t put him into it, my name ain’t King—King Britton!”
The landlord now took the opportunity of whispering to Master Sniggles—
“Do for Heaven’s sake be an idiot.”
“I—I—the devil!” cried Sniggles.
“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.
“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.
“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand. “Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”
“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”
“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”
“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”
“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.
“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”
“What did he say?”
“Why, says he, the squire gives an entertainment to-night to the court and nobility.”
“Oh,” cried Britton. “He does, and he has not invited me.”
The landlord winked at Master Sniggles, and Master Sniggles this time winked at the landlord, both the winks signifying how very far gone was Britton in drunkenness to make so very absurd and preposterous a remark.
Britton was silent for a few moments. Then a half-drunken, half-malignant smile covered his swarthy visage.
“I will go,” he cried, “I will be the only uninvited guest, and—and yet the most free. Ha, ha! Learmont would as leave see the devil himself walk in as King Britton, the smith. I’ll go!”
“Does your majesty really mean,” suggested the landlord, “to kick up a royal row at the rich squire’s?”
“Do I mean?” said Britton. “I will have a dance in his halls, I say. There’s not a knave in his household dare stand in my way. Hurrah! Hurrah! I’m a gentleman. I do nothing but drink, so I’m a gentleman. Ha! Ha! Ha! Learmont don’t expect me, but there’s nothing like an unlooked for pleasure. I’ll visit him to-night, if the pit of hell should open at his threshold to stay my progress.”
So saying, he dashed from the Chequers leaving the landlord and Master Sniggles gazing at each other in speechless amazement.
What occurred at the drunken smith’s visit to Learmont’s fête, we are already aware.