“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”
“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.”
The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it.
The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?”
“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”
The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,—
“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”
“That’s true,” said Britton.
“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.”
“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.