"Cry you mercy, sir," said the drawer, straightening up, "this be the Boar's Head Tavern, sir. What may your worship require by way of food and drink?"
"These old-timers beat all creation for ignorance," muttered Droop. Then, looking up into the man's face, he called for one drink after another, watching hopefully for some sign of answering intelligence.
"Give me a Scotch high-ball. No? Then a gin sling. Hot Tom and Jerry, then. Marry, an egg flip, i' faith! Ain't got 'em? Get me a brandy smash—a sherry cobbler—a gin rickey—rock and rye—a whisky sour—a mint julep! What! Nothin'? What in thunder do ye sell, then?"
The drawer scratched his head, and then grinned suddenly and gave vent to a dry laugh.
"Well said! Well said, master! The jest is a merry one—call me a Jew else!" Then, sobering as briskly as he had taken to laughing: "Will you have a cup of sack, master, to settle the stomach after fasting—or a drop of Canary or Xeres or a mug of ale, perchance——"
"That's right, by my halidom!" Droop broke in. "Bring me some ale, waiter."
The drawer whisked away and returned in a few moments with a huge power tankard topped with a snowy foam.
"That's the stuff!" said Droop, smacking his lips. He half-emptied the beaker, and then, turning to the drawer:
"Can you tell me," he said, "if I can find a man by the name of Hart here—Sir Percevall Hart?"
"Sir Percevall," said the drawer, in an undertone. "Why, there's your man, master. The fat knight snoring by yon fire."