“What is it?” cried a dozen voices in chorus.
“Hilloa!” roared Britton. “Peace, I say, peace! Am I king or not? Damme, if I was a cockchafer instead of a king, you couldn’t behave worse; curse you all!”
“Ha, ha, ha! A cockchafer,” laughed a man whose back was towards Britton, but who was just within his reach, and he accordingly received from Britton such a stunning blow with the pewter measure that he had not a laugh in him for an hour.
“Now, silence all,” cried Britton, and when comparative stillness was procured, he turned with drunken gravity to the landlord, and said.—
“Now, idiot, you come into my presence, and say,—‘There’s news!’”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“If you interrupt me, I’ll brain you. No, not brain you. You can’t be brained, having none; but I’ll do something else that I’ll think of. Now, what’s the news?”
“May it please your majesty,” said the landlord, “there’s news of a fire and a murder.”
The smith half rose from his chair and his face assumed a tinge of deep red as he shouted,—
“Who dare say so much? Think you I am crippled and cannot use my fore hammer still—the—the fire was accidental.”