“Meat? Nonsense. What the devil have I to do with meat? Give it to me.”
Britton snatched the note from the hands of the butcher, and read as follows:—
“Meet me by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at Buckingham Gate.”
L.
“Short and civil—I’ll see him d—d first—nine o’clock too? A likely hour—no Master Learmont, I’ll call upon you when I please, no oftener and no seldomer; but I won’t meet you at Buckingham Gate, as sure as my name’s Andrew Britton. Am I to be dictated to?”
“I should think not,” cried Bond. “Does that come from the squire, eh, Britton?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Nothing at all, but I asked you, nevertheless, and you needn’t put yourself out of the way.”
“You he hanged.”
“Be hanged yourself.”