“What’s to-day, squire?”
“Thursday.”
“Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning. If I’ve been sober on Friday night, we’ll say eleven o’clock; if drunk, make it two or three.”
A low tap at the door now announced some one, and Learmont went to see who it was.
“The—the—breakfast—for two, your honour—is—is—laid in the south parlour,” stammered a servant, with a frightened aspect.
“Oh, it is, is it?” said Britton. “Then you may eat it yourself, for I ain’t going to stay to breakfast with his worship.”
“Yes, yes,” said the servant, disappearing.
“There now,” cried Britton, “ain’t I respectful? You see I ain’t going to touch your breakfast, I dare say I shall get a d—d sight better one at the Chequers. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a king, then. Who’d have thought of that—King Britton, the jolly smith of Learmont.”
“You said you came to warn me of somebody or something,” suggested Learmont.
“So I did,” replied the smith. “That cursed Hartleton has got some crotchet or another in his head, you may depend. He came in disguise to the Chequers to watch me. Beware of him, squire. If I catch him prying into my affairs, and listening to what I say over my glass, I’ll meet him alone some dark evening, and there will be a vacancy in the magistracy. Perhaps, squire, you could step into his shoes. That would be glorious. I’d have a row every night, and you could smother it up in the morning, besides paying all the expenses. Good morning to you squire. Take care, of yourself.”