“Really, I—I—”
“You won’t!”
“I don’t presume to use such an expression in reference to any command from your majesty, but the truth is—I would rather not.”
“But I say you shall.”
“Spare me, your majesty; I am rather weak in the head.”
“Hold him, Bond, while I pour it down his throat,” cried Britton.
The landlord groaned—“If I must take a small sip, why I would rather take it myself.”
“Toss it off, then, at once; and don’t be making those faces. Come, now, off with it.”
The landlord was perfectly well aware that no mortal throat could with impunity swallow the scalding liquor to trickle down it; and, in fact, he had been pleasing himself with the idea of how scalded the smith would be if, with his usual precipitancy, he should take a gulp of the liquor; but now that it came to his turn first, the joke altered its complexion altogether, and his hand trembled as he held the ladle to his mouth.
“Quick,” roared Britton; and the unfortunate landlord took a small sip, which went down his throat like a small globule of melted lead, and induced him to make such wry faces and contortions as quite delighted Andrew Britton, who, in the enjoyment of the moment, actually forgot Jacob Gray.