He had lifted the bottle as bidden, and lo! there was the muzzle of a wicked horse-pistol pointed straight at his breast.
The two gentlemen laughed.
“Why,” said the elder, “I want to make sure this time the stuff isn’t tampered with. Hold steady, while I knock the neck off.”
Nerveless with terror the man let fall the bottle, simply because he couldn’t hold it; and, dropping on his pads of knees, howled for mercy.
“God save me, sir—I never did! The wine wasn’t hocussed, sir. Your honour saw the cork drawn!”
At this—“Harkee, fellow!” called Sir David, striking in, “d’ye think I, a Justice of the Peace, will endure this gallows’ game in our midst?”
Mr. Tuke laughed afresh.
“Oh, fie, Mr. Breeds!” said he. “So you must own to a bin of ready-drugged?”
The landlord ducked behind the counter, and cried abjectly from that beery covert:
“Don’t shoot, sir—don’t shoot! If the stuff was headstrong, ’twas none of my contriving. There have been lither knaves compelling me of late.”