It was comical and pathetic, this good fellow’s earnest conduct of the post he had long coveted. His eye was bright and alert for surprises; his air a perpetual rehearsal of keenness that should not be caught napping. An atmosphere of mild braggadocio went with him—an assumption of swagger that was like a “property” cuirass on the breast of an inoffensive super. And yet, having regard to his upbringing, he was fine and faithful, and even courageous in a certain degree of proportion.
The two gentlemen rode up to the “Dog and Duck,” and, dismounting, committed their horses to the servant, and walked straightway into the tap. As they entered, a scuffling sound, like the dive of a ponderous rat behind the wainscot, preceded them; and, standing still, they were aware of some apoplectic breathing stifling in the little bar-parlour.
Mr. Tuke stepped up to the counter.
“Landlord,” said he loudly, “a bottle of port, if you please.”
The breathing subsided with a rolling noise, as if a heap of nuts were settling down on the floor; and suddenly the great blotched face of Mr. Breeds appeared in the doorway.
“Port, your honour?” said he, in a tremulous voice. “I take your honour’s order.”
He disappeared and returning in a moment with a bottle hugged in his fat hands, moved officiously to the counter, where he tweaked a greasy forelock to his worshipful customers.
“Hold it up, man—hold it up! the cork to your eye, and the good black body to your own. So shall I see to tap it.”
The landlord uttered a thick scream.
“Mr. Tuke! Oh, God’s pity, sir, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot me?”