Britton, the smith, was in truth a great man at the Chequers, in Westminster. His love of liquor suited the landlord amazingly, and his custom, when the whim took him, of treating everybody who happened to be present, turned out an exceeding good speculation for mine host. Sots and topers came from far and near to the Chequers, upon the chance of a treat from “King Britton,” as he was commonly called, and they would wait patiently drinking at their own proper costs until the smith got intoxicated enough to act the great man, and order drink for all at his own expense.
This acted well for the landlord, whose liquor was constantly kept flowing at some one’s expense, and he put up patiently with the brutal jests of the smith, many of them being accompanied with personal ill-usage, rather then turn the tide of prosperity that was pouring into his house.
Many were the conjectures as to the source of Britton’s ample means; but although all supposed them to proceed from some not over honest means, all were so much interested in their continuance that the curiosity excited produced no further result than whispered expressions of wonder and wise shakes of the head.
It was true that Britton had been watched to Learmont’s house, but it never for a moment entered the heads of the busybodies at the Chequers that he visited the great Squire Learmont himself, and whether or not he had some accomplice at Learmont’s house, which enabled him to rob the wealthy squire, was the only thought suggested by tracing him more than once to the hall door of Learmont’s princely and much talked of abode.
Daylight was commonly shut out of the old oaken parlour of the Chequers before it was all necessary, by the orders of Britton, who found himself more at home and enjoyed his liquor better by candle or lamplight than with a bright setting sun streaming in upon his drunken orgies.
It was upon one of these occasions that the shutters had been closed by the obsequious landlord at least an hour earlier than necessary, and for which he had been rewarded by a crack on the pate with a pewter ale measure, and that made him dance again, that a more than usually thronged company filled the parlor of the ancient house.
Britton sat in an arm-chair in the first stage of intoxication. His eyes were inflamed and blood-shot, and his whole visage betrayed the debasing influence of habitual drunkenness. He wore a strange mixture of clothing; a richly-laced coat which he had bought from the window of a tailor, who had only charged him double price for it and a kick, contrasted oddly with a coarse red night-cap that he wore, and the pipe stuck in the buttonholes of the rich laced waistcoat, presented a strange anomaly of elegance and vulgarity.
The company were some smoking, some drinking, and some talking; but it was easy to see that the general attention was fixed upon Britton, who there sat, as he considered, in his glory.
“Landlord!” he roared, in a voice that made the glasses ring again. “Landlord! I say, curse on you for a sluggish hand, come hither! Where’s your respect for your king, you keeper of bad butts—you thief, you purloiner of honester men’s sack?—Come hither, I say.”
“Ha!—Ha!” laughed a man, who had come a long way to chance a treat at the Chequers—“Ha!—Ha!—That’s good. Ho!—Ho!”