The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,—
“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”
The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—
“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”
The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.
“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”
The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—
“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”
“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”
The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—