“There 's nobody likes a bit of conviviality better than myself,” said Dal ton; “but I 've a kind of engagement, a promise I made this morning.”
There was an evident confusion in the way these words were uttered, which did not escape either of the others, who exchanged the most significant glances as he spoke.
“What have we here?” cried Jekyl, as he sprang to the window and looked out. “A courier, by all that's muddy! Who could have expected such an apparition at this time?”
“What can bring people here now?” said Haggerstone, as with his glass to his eye he surveyed the little well-fed figure, who, in his tawdry jacket all slashed with gold, and heavy jack-boots, was closely locked in the embraces of the landlord.
Jekyl at once issued forth to learn the news, and, although not fully three minutes absent, returned to his companions with a full account of the expected arrivals.
“It's that rich banker, Sir Stafford Onslow, with his family. They were on their way to Italy, and made a mess of it somehow in the Black Forest they got swept away by a torrent, or crushed by an avalanche, or something of the kind, and Sir Stafford was seized with the gout, and so they 've put back, glad even to make such a port as Baden.”
“If it's the gout's the matter with him,” said Dalton, “I 've the finest receipt in the world. Take a pint of spirits poteen if you can get it beat up two eggs and a pat of butter in it; throw in a clove of garlic and a few scrapings of horseradish, let it simmer over the fire for a minute or two, stir it with a sprig of rosemary to give it a flavor, and then drink it off.”
“Gracious Heaven! what a dose!” exclaimed Jekyl, in horror.
“Well, then, I never knew it fail. My father took it for forty years, and there wasn't a haler man in the country. If it was n't that he gave up the horseradish for he did n't like the taste of it he 'd, maybe, be alive at this hour.”
“The cure was rather slow of operation,” said Haggerstone, with a sneer.