By the time he had moved in his heavy dignity into the room in which Cynthia and I were seated at our bread and cheese, the landlord had taken note of his visitor, and had come forward to greet him with all the respectful familiarity of one who was happy to meet again an old and cherished and highly-valued client.
"No other than Mr. John Jeremy, by all that's wonderful," says the landlord, bowing and smiling. "The Mr. John Jeremy, as I'm a licensed victualler."
No sooner had the landlord uttered the name than I looked hastily at Cynthia, and she looked hastily at me. Where had we heard that name so recently, and in what connexion? Suddenly the same flash of recollection illuminated the minds of us both. It was the name of the celebrated Bow Street runner, as given in the London Gazette. I think we both went hot and then cold. But when the first emotion of surprise was overpast, a dogged resolution succeeded to it and with it a determination to put, if need be, as bold a face upon the matter as we could. After all there was nothing about us by which we could be identified. Appearances were certainly in our favour; and the black eye I had that morning received from the farmer was not the least likely thing of all to stand me in good stead.
"Sit tight," I whispered to her, "and we'll keep asipping out of the same pot as unconcerned as possible."
Mr. Jeremy having seated himself with majestic negligence at a table immediately opposite us, turned to his companion and says:
"Wattle you 'ave, Willum?"
"Make it porter," says Willum, in a voice of extreme melancholy.
"Wattle you 'ave, Mr. Johnson?" says Mr. Jeremy, addressing the host, a reel-faced worthy of simple ways, who seemed pleased with himself and all the world.
"Make it porter, Mr. Jeremy, as you're so haffable," says he; "and what might be your own?"
"If you 'ave any of that there sloe-gin, mine's sloe-gin," says Mr. Jeremy.