Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s Amusements.
Britton’s rage at the escape of Gray from his room, where he thought he had him so securely, almost made him sober for the next four-and-twenty hours. He was in too great a passion to drink, and it was not until his friend the butcher had generously drunk both Britton’s share and his own of sundry strong compounds, that the smith, dashing his clenched first upon the table with a blow that made every article upon it jump again, exclaimed,—
“Brandy—brandy here. Quick with you.”
“Your majesty shall have it in a moment,” cried the landlord; “may I presume to ask if your majesty will have it raw or mixed?”
“Neither,” roared Britton.
“Neither? Oh dear me. Certainly—perhaps your majesty means a little of both?”
“No, I don’t, fool! Bring me a pint of brandy boiling.”
“B—b—b—boiling?”
“Yes.”
“Without any water?”