The landlord at this moment made his appearance, with the boiling brandy in a punch-bowl. At least, the landlord was supposed to follow it into the room; for the steam that arose from the liquor hid his face in a kind of glory, such as sometimes may be seen in an old picture confounding the physiognomy of a saint.
He said nothing, but laid the streaming beverage before Britton, and then he coughed, and winked, and wiped his eyes, and sneezed, all of which symptoms of uneasiness arose from the subtle particles of the evaporating spirit having nearly suffocated him.
“What do you mean by all that?” said Britton.
“Ah, what do you mean?” roared Bond, giving the landlord a smack on the back that nearly felled him.
“The—the steam of brandy is rather—a—chew—, a—a—a—chew. Bless me, I can’t help sneezing—a—chew—strong—very—strong. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very good for the eyes, it makes ’em water so. What an idea—boiled brandy!”
“Oh, you think it’s a good idea, do you?” said Britton, as he ladled up a brimmer of the scalding-hot spirit.
“Uncommonly good—chew.”
“Leave off that sneezing, will you?”
“I really can’t—a—chew. Excuse me, your majesty, but we never had such a thing as boiled brandy ordered at the Chequers before.”
“Oh, indeed; then you shall have a drop. Come drink, this—drink I say.”