“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.
“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.
“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand. “Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”
“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”
“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”
“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”
“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.
“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”
“What did he say?”