“No, never. Hurrah!” shouted the guests.
“His gracious majesty’s health,” said a man rising at the further end of the room; “and may I be butchered if he ain’t a out and outer.”
“What do you mean by may you be butchered?” said Bond.
“No reflection upon you, good Master Bond,” said the man; “I only—that is, I meant nothing.”
“Then don’t do it again,” said Bond, making three strides towards the man, and knocking his head against the wainscot till the lights danced again in his eyes.
That was just the kind of thing to arouse Britton, and he roared with laughter at the faces the man mad.
“Is a man,” remarked the butcher, “to have his trade, let it be ever so respectable, throwed slap in his face?”
“Bravo!” cried Britton; “well, landlord, bring us another bowl. Quick!”
“Yes, your majesty. Oh, he’s a wonderful man—I mean king. What a head-piece, my masters—if there’s any difficulty to be overcome, ask King Britton, and you have an answer pat at once—a most astonishing monarch he is, to be sure.”
“Well, who the devil are you?” said Britton, as a stranger entered the room.