There was a general laugh against the butcher at this sally, who, glaring ferociously at the speaker, exclaimed,—
“When you come to my shop again, look after your own carcass that’s all, and now for what I calls judgmatical atomy.”
“What?” cried several voices.
“Judgmatical atomy,” roared the butcher. “It means knowing whether bones is broke or not.”
“Oh, very good, Master Bond,” said the landlord. “Pray attend to his majesty, bless him. I hope he ain’t hurt—a d—d fool.”
This last sentence was uttered very low by the landlord, and Bond, the butcher, at once commenced a ludicrous examination of the various limbs of Britton.
“He ain’t hurt in the fore-leg,” he remarked. “He ain’t damaged nowhere from neck to loins. He’d cut up as nice as possible, and nobody be no wiser. Pour a glass of brandy into his mouth, and hold his nose.”
This operation was duly performed, and as recovery or strangulation were the only alternatives nature had, in the case of Andrew Britton, she embraced the former and he opened his eyes.
CHAPTER LXV.
An Interview with a Secretary of State.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Difficulties.