This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.
“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat.
“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare.
“So he is,” cried several voices.
“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.
“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth.
“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.
After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with.
This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.
“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”