In a short time Mr. Suggett stopped suddenly at the door of a large white public-house, not a hundred miles distant from the new church, St. Pancras.
"This is a nice crib," said he. "Excellent company; and to-night there is a supper at eleven."
"The very identified thing," acquiesced Mr. Whittingham; and into the public-house they walked.
Nothing could be more neat and cleanly than the bar of the Servants' Arms—no one more obliging nor bustling than the "young lady" behind the bar. The Servants' Arms was reported to draw the best liquor in all the neighbourhood; and its landlord prided himself upon the superiority of his establishment over those which sold beer "at three-pence a-pot in your own jugs." And then what a rapid draught the landlord had for all his good things; and how crowded was the space before the bar with customers.
"Glass of ale—mild, Miss, if you please," said one.
"A quartern of gin and three outs, Caroline," cried a second, who was more familiar.
"Pint of half-and-half, here," exclaimed a third.
"Six of brandy, warm, Miss—four of gin, cold, and a pint of ale with the chill off—parlour!" ejaculated the waiter, who now made his appearance at the bar.
"Pot of porter; and master's compliments, and can you lend him yesterday's Advertiser for half an hour or so?" said a pretty little servant girl, placing a large yellow jug on the bright lead surface of the bar.
"Pot of ale, and a screw, Miss."