“Sartinly not.”
“Thank you—thank you. Keep a look out now, by the door, and when you see a pale, ill-looking scoundrel walk out—no, sneak out, I mean—follow him. He will be the proper man, I wait here your return, good Master Bond, and then we can take what steps, after you have found out where he lives, we may agree upon. More canary there!”
Britton kept taking huge draughts of liquor as he instructed the butcher, in what he wished him to do, and now his voice began to thicken, and he had but a very confused recollection of what he had confided to him, and what he had kept secret.
“D—n the Old Smithy,” he cried; “who cares? Not I. I’d live there again although there are some strange sights and sounds.”
The butcher looked confused, and then in his peculiar elegant phraseology he asked Britton what the h—ll he meant.
“What do I mean?” said Britton; “why, I mean what I say, to be sure. You know what I mean well enough—I tell you this infernal thing that’s now up stairs, kept me at the anvil for years, when I ought to have been, as I am now, a gentleman.”
“Oh,” said the butcher, “I suppose he gave you an amazing lot of work and wouldn’t pay for any of it till it was all done?”
“I suppose you’re a fool,” said Britton.
“Thank you,” replied Bond; “you may abuse me as much as you like, I’m your best friend, and can stand it. You know you’ll go far afore you can find another fellow as can drink as much as me.”
Britton seemed struck with the force and truth of this remark, and he took another huge draught of liquor before he replied,—