The door opened quickly, and in came King Charles; but who would have known him? The royal monarch had assumed the mien and garb of a ragged cavalier.
His eyes swept the inn quickly and approvingly. He turned upon the landlord, who followed him with dubious glances.
“Cook the chickens to a turn; and, mark you, have the turbot and sauce hot, and plenty of wine,” he said. “Look to’t; the vintage I named, Master Landlord. I know the bouquet and sparkle and the ripple o’er the palate.”
“Who is to pay for all this, sir?” asked the landlord, aghast at the order.
“Insolent!” replied Charles. “I command it, sirrah.”
“Pardon, sir,” humbly suggested the landlord; “guineas, and not words, command here.”
“Odso!” muttered the King, remembering his disguise. “My temper will reveal me. Never fear, landlord,” he boasted loudly. “You shall be paid, amply paid. I will pledge myself you shall be paid.”
“Pardon, sir,” falteringly repeated the landlord, rubbing his hands together graciously; “but the order is a costly one and you–”
“Do not look flourishing?” said Charles, as he laughingly finished the sentence, glancing somewhat dubiously himself at his own dress. “Never judge a man by his rags. Plague on’t, though; I would not become my own creditor upon inspection. Take courage, good Master Landlord; England’s debt is in my pocket.”
“How many to supper, sir?” asked the landlord, fearful lest he might offend.