“Why—why you all called turn him out,” said the discomfited landlord.
“Ah—yes,” said the man who had prepared to drink Britton’s health—“but we meant you.”
“Yes—yes! Hear—hear!” cried everybody; “we meant turn out the landlord.”
“The deuce you did.”
“Where—where—is she? Curses on her—where is she—is it a dream?” murmured Britton, recovering from his mixed state of insensibility, produced by drink and a blow of his head against the floor.
“Was—it true—eh?” continued Britton; “where the devil am I now? Can’t you speak, none of you?”
The landlord turned to the company, and placed his fingers confidentially and knowingly against the side of his nose, in intimation that he was about to perpetrate some piece of extreme cleverness not quite consistent with truth. Then, turning to Britton, he said in a commiserating tone,—
“Good luck, Master King Britton, your majesty certainly took forty winks in a chair, and by some sudden move, it has upset your majesty.”
“Is—is—that it?” said Britton, looking around him with heavy eyes.
“Yes all these honourable gentlemen can bear me out in what I say.”