“I’ve got a letter for him—where is he? I suppose as he’ll give me a penny.”
Britton slowly rose from his seat and began sidling round the table towards the boy; who, however, was far too quick and agile for the bulky smith, and throwing a folded piece of paper upon the floor, he darted to the door, crying—
“Don’t you wish it, old guts; you’ll make yourself ill if you exert yourself so. Good-bye.”
“Hold him,” cried Britton to the landlord, who made a futile, and not very energetic, attempt to detain the boy, who was out of the house in a moment, and in the next a stone came through a pane of glass and hit the landlord upon the side of the head.
“Oh, the vagabond,” said mine host, making a rush to the door, and fully participating in Britton’s indignation now that he had himself cause of complaint; but Britton intercepted him, and being resolved to have revenge upon somebody, he knocked the landlord’s head against the door-post, with a rap that made him look confused for a moment, and then retire from the room dancing with pain.
“All right,” cried Bond.
“Aham!” said Britton, returning to his seat. “That’ll teach him to run against me another time, and if I meet that boy, I’ll wring his neck.”
“What’s this here?” remarked the butcher, as he picked up the note the lad had thrown down. “‘To Andrew Britten,’ that’s large, but hang me if I can make out the rest. The first word is sensible enough, howsomever.”
“What is it?”
“Meat.”