“Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume.”
Martin smiled.
“What is the real name?”
“It should be ‘Ape Hall,’ for here we ape men of learning, whereas little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting. But you will find our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that title, with yet stronger claims.”
“But what do the outsiders call you?”
“Saint Dymas’ Halt, since we never pay our debts. But the world calls it Le Oriole {[17]} Hostel. A better name just now is ‘Liberty Hall,’ for we all do just as we like. There is no king in Israel.”
So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter:
“Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?”
“Not so loud, my young sir. We may be heard.” He paused, but put his hand knowingly to the neck just under the left ear.
“Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged. Where is Spitfire?”