“On my faith he does. ’Tis a shrewd knave, but I hate him. I hate him, I say!”

“Indeed!” says Learmont. “He says you are a beastly sot, good Britton.”

“Does he?”

“Ay, does he. A thick skulled, drunken idiot.”

“Ha! He says that of me?”

“Even so; a mere lump of brutality—savage beast!”

“Now curses on him!” muttered Britton.

“How much money do you want?” said Learmont, very suddenly.

“Twenty pieces.”

“Twenty? Pshaw, make them forty or fifty, provided you have likewise your revenge on Jacob Gray.”