"Pint of gin, for mixing, please."
"Bottle of Cape wine, at eighteen, landlord."
"Four-penn'orth of rum, cold without."
"Half pint of porter, and a pipe, Caroline."
Such were the orders, issued from all quarters at the same moment, and to which Caroline responded with incredible alacrity; finding time to crack a joke with the known frequenters of the house, and to make a pleasant observation upon the weather to those whose faces were strange to her;—while the landlord contented himself with looking on, or every now and then drawing a pot of beer, apparently as a great favour and in a lazy independent manner. Nevertheless, he was a good, civil kind of a man; only somewhat independent, because he was growing rich. He was never afraid at the end of month to see Truman and Hanbury's collector, and Nicholson's man, alight from their gigs at his door. They were always sure to find the money ready for them, when they sate down to write their receipts in the little narrow slip of a parlour behind the bar. In fact, the landlord of the Servants' Arms, was reported to be doing "a very snug business:"—and so he was.
Messrs. Whittingham and Suggett sauntered leisurely into the parlour of the Servants' Arms, and took their seats at the only table which remained unoccupied.
"Good evening, Sir," said the waiter, addressing Mr. Suggett with a sort of semi-familiarity, which showed that the latter gentleman was in the habit of "using the house."
"How are you, William?" cried Mr. Suggett, in a patronising manner. "George been here lately?"
"Not very: I think he's down in the country."
"Oh! Well, what shall we have, Mr. Whittingham—brandy and water?"