“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”
The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,—
“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”
“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.
“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.”
“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”
Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.
“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”
“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.
“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”