“Hilloa, friend!”
Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.
This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!” but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in Abingdon-street.
In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.
The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman when there was nobody to apprehend.
In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.
The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.
“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising.
“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it.
“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”