“That’s good,” gasped Britton, when he had finished his draught, “I was thirsty. Upon my life that’s good. Curse the awkward fellow! He has broken the other, I wonder how the d—l I came—by G—d! This is the squire’s, now I look about me. I must have been drunk. What the deuce has happened? My head is all of a twirl. Let me think,—humph! The Chequers—d—n it! I can’t recollect anything but the Chequers.”
Britton’s cogitations were here interrupted by the appearance of Learmont with a dark scowl on his brow that would have alarmed any one but the iron-nerved and audacious Britton.
“Well, squire,” he said, “I suppose I’d a drop too much, and you took care of me, eh? Is that it?”
“Follow—me!” said Learmont, bringing out the two words through his clenched teeth, and making a great effort to preserve himself from bursting out into a torrent of invective.
“Follow you?” exclaimed Britton. “Well I have no objection; I’ll follow you. Our business is always quite private and confidential.”
He followed the rapid strides of Learmont along a long gallery, during the progress of which they encountered a servant, when Britton immediately paused, and roared out in a voice that made the man stand like one possessed,—
“Hark, ye knave!—You in the tawny coat, turned up with white—bring breakfast for two directly.”
“Andrew Britton!” cried Learmont, turning full upon the smith, flashing with resentment.
“Squire Learmont!” replied Britton, facing him with an air of insolence and bloated assurance.
There was a pause for a moment, and then Learmont added,—