“No! I can’t say I ever did.”
“You lie, landlord: you saw him to-night.”
“Sir!” cried the landlord, bristling up.
The little man pulled out a brace of pistols, and very quietly began priming them out of a small powder-flask.
The landlord started back; the head-waiter cried “Rape!” and the barmaid “Murder!”
“Who the devil are you, sir?” cried the landlord.
“Mr. Tickletrout! the celebrated officer,—thief-taker, as they call it. Have a care, ma’am, the pistols are loaded. I see the chaise is out; there’s the reckoning, landlord.”
“O Lord! I’m sure I don’t want any reckoning: too great an honour for my poor house to be favoured with your company; but [following the little man to the door] whom did you please to say you were going to catch?”
“Mr. Crauford, alias Dr. Stapylton.”
“Lord! Lord! to think of it,—how shocking! What has he done?”