“Gracious me!“ cried the landlord; “I never thought of that. Hilloa—hilloa; there’s mur—”
“So you won’t be quiet,” cried Britton, suddenly appearing, and giving the landlord a knock on the head that made him stagger again; “who do you suppose will live here to be annoyed by your noise, eh?”
“But your majesty,” said the landlord, “here’s been a long thief here with a cloak.”
“There hasn’t,” said Britton.
“An’, it please your majesty, these worthy neighbours saw him, and—”
“They didn’t,” roared Britton; “bring me brandy, and whoever says they saw or heard anything that I say nay to, I’ll make him eat the measure.”
The landlord now merely cast up his eyes, and made a movement with his hands, as much as to signify it’s no use saying anything, let us be wise and silent, and then hurried into his bar, to execute the imperious smith’s order.
When Britton entered the parlour, he was vociferously welcomed by Bond, but the smith beckoned him to one of the windows, and when the bulky butcher obeyed the summons, Britton whispered in his ear:—
“Bond, you promised to lend me your cleaver, in case I wanted it.”
“So I did.”