“That is how I accept your toast of Mrs. Baddeley, sir,” she cried, standing at the head of the table with the dripping glass still in her hand. “You drunken sot! not to be able to distinguish between me and Sophia Baddeley! I can stand the insult no longer. Take yourself out of my room, sir!”
She gave the broad ribbon of the bell such a pull as nearly brought it down. Goldsmith having started up, stood with amazement on his face watching her, while the other man also stared at her through his drunken stupour, his jaw fallen.
Not a word was spoken until the waiter entered the room.
“Call a hackney coach immediately for that gentleman,” said the actress, pointing to the man who alone remained—for the best of reasons—seated.
“A coach? Certainly, madam,” said the waiter, withdrawing with a bow.
“Dr. Goldsmith,” resumed Mrs. Abington, “may I beg of you to have the goodness to see that person to his lodgings and to pay the cost of the hackney-coach? He is not entitled to that consideration, but I have a wish to treat him more generously than he deserves. His address is Whetstone Park, I think we may assume; and so I leave you, sir.”
* She walked from the room with her chin in the air, both of the men watching her with such surprise as prevented either of them from uttering a word. It was only when she had gone that it occurred to Goldsmith that she was acting her part admirably—that she had set herself to give him an opportunity of obtaining possession of the wallet which she, as well as he, had seen Jackson transfer from the pocket of his cloak to that of his waistcoat. Surely he should have no great difficulty in extracting the bundle from the man's pocket when in the coach.
“They're full of their whimsies, these wenches,” were the first words spoken, with a free wave of an arm, by the man who had failed in his repeated attempts to lift himself out of his chair. “What did I say?—what did I do to cause that spitfire to behave like that? I feel hurt, sir, more deeply hurt than I can express, at her behaviour. What's her name—I'm not sure if she was Mrs. Abington or Mrs. Baddeley? Anyhow, she insulted me grossly—me, sir—me, an officer who has charged his Majesty's rebels in the plantations of Virginia, where the Potomac flows down to the sea. But they're all alike. I could tell you a few stories about them, sir, that would open your eyes, for I have been their darling always.” Here he began to sing a tavern song in a loud but husky tone, for the brandy had done its work very effectively, and he had now reached what might be called—somewhat paradoxically—the high-water mark of intoxication. He was still singing when the waiter re-entered the room to announce that a hackney carriage was waiting at the door of the tavern.
At the announcement the drunken man made a grab for a decanter and flung it at the waiter's head. It missed that mark, however, and crashed among the plates which were still on the table, and in a moment the landlord and a couple of his barmen were in the room and on each side of Jackson. He made a poor show of resistance when they pinioned his arms and pushed him down the stairs and lifted him into the hackney-coach. The landlord and his assistants were accustomed to deal with promptitude with such persons, and they had shut the door of the coach before Goldsmith reached the street.