Britton had his usual large party at the Chequers, while Jacob Gray was being hunted through Westminster by the extremely officious shoemaker. His friend the butcher sat by his side, and whenever Britton roared out an oath, Master Bond was sure to cap it by some other of the most unique character.
The time was past midnight, and yet there was the rattling of glasses—the thumping of tankards—the shouts—screams—laughter and oaths of the motley assembly, proceeding in full vigour.
The landlord, when Westminster Abbey chimes struck the half hour past twelve, rushed into the room with a bland smile, after relieving his mind at the door by a hearty curse, and approaching Britton, he said,—
“Might I be so bold as to remind your most worshipful majesty that it is now half-past twelve?”
“No, you might not,” roared Britton; “what’s time to me, I should like to know? Are you king of the Chequers, or am I?”
“With humble submission to your majesty, of course your majesty is king of the Chequers, but your highness must be aware that the magistrates are dreadfully jealous of a poor fellow keeping his house open so late.”
“I suppose you may open as early as you like?” roared Britton.
“Certainly, your highness’s grace.”
“Very well; if any one comes to say a word, tell him you shut up at twelve, and open again at half-past. Do you hear, noodle, eh?”
“Do you hear his majesty’s suggestion?” said the landlord, “was there ever such a head piece?”