How long the landlord’s sufferings might have been protracted it is hard to say; but fortunately for him, in the midst of Britton’s high enjoyment of the scene, a boy came into the room, and screamed out, without the least reverence for the kingly dignity that the smith had assumed at the Chequers,—
“Is Andrew Britton here?”
“Halloo, you villain,” cried Britton, “what do you mean?”
“I wants Andrew Britton,” cried the boy.
“You scoundrel!”
“You’re another!”
Britton’s face assumed a purplish hue with rage, but he was silent, and then beckoning to the boy, he whispered to Bond,—
“I’ll scald him from top to toe.”
“Don’t you wish you may catch me,” cried the boy, “hilloo, old read face. Look at your nose. I want Andrew Britton.”
“Oh, you villain,” cried the landlord, “how dare you behave so? What do you want with the gentleman you have named?”