“I’ faith, I trow she’s still cooking, landlord,” consolingly replied the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the benefit of Buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask.
“Bless Matilde,” said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, “I had a hard time to fill her place.”
“Yea, truly,” chuckled Swallow in Buzzard’s ear, between draughts, “three long months from grave to altar.”
“A good soul, a good soul, Master Swallow,” continued the landlord, with the appearance of deep affliction.
“And a better cook, landlord,” said Swallow, sadly. “Odsbud, she knew a gooseberry tart. Patch your old wife’s soul to your new wife’s face, and you’ll be a happy man, landlord. Here’s a drop to her.”
“Thank ye, Master Constable,” replied the landlord, much affected. He looked well to the filling of the flagon in his hand, again wiped a tear from his eye and took a deep draught to the pledge of
“The old one!”
Swallow, with equal reverence, and with some diplomacy, placed his flagon to his lips with the pledge of
“The new one!”
Buzzard, who had not been heard from for some time, roused sufficiently to realize the situation, and broke out noisily on his part with