The three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three jolly topers but for a woman’s voice, calling sharply from the kitchen:
“Jenkins, love!”
“Body o’ me!” exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard. “Coming, coming, my dear!” and he departed hastily.
The constable poked Buzzard in the ribs; Buzzard poked the constable in the ribs.
“Jenkins, love!” they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned, much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they poked fun at the taverner.
“Body o’ me! Thou sly dog!” said the constable, as he continued to twit him. “Whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? A dimpled cook, eh?”
The landlord’s face grew serious with offended dignity as he attempted to explain.
“’Tis my wife, Master Constable,” he said.
“Marry, the new one?” inquired Swallow.
“’Tis not the old one, Master Swallow,” replied the old hypocrite, wiping away a forced tear. “Poor soul, she’s gone, I know not where.”