Learmont walked hastily towards the Chequers, and early as it was, sounds of mirth and revelry were issuing from it. Bond, the butcher, was waiting for Britton to rise, and amusing himself by chanting Bacchanalian songs the while, and drinking deeply. His roaring voice arrested Learmont’s steps, and he wondered who it could be that so rivalled even the lungs of Britton, as he heard the following strains:—
“Up, to the skies
Let the goblet rise,
We heed nor wind nor weather;
We moisten each lip
With the wine sip,
And we clank our cans together.
Clank—clank—clank.
“Drink, drink to the vine,
’Tis a goddess fine,