“Oh, Britton—Britton, was it not horrible?”
“No, it wasn’t. When you knock a fellow on the head with a cleaver, you do for him at once, and all you get out of him is a kick or two. Come this way and don’t be shaking here. Come and have some brandy—d—n water, I’m as thirsty as I can be, and water always makes me worse. Come on—oh! You are a beauty, Master Learmont—you used not to be such a fool. Time was, since I’ve known you, when you’d have thought nothing of this. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, hush—hush—hush,” said Learmont; “do not call to my recollection things which have already left their brand upon my soul.”
“Ha—ha—ha,” laughed Britton, “now I will have some fun with the squire. Don’t you recollect knocking your brother Mark’s first baby on the head, squire?”
“Peace—peace—fiend,” gasped Learmont.
They had now reached the door of a small public-house, which was kept open usually all night for the convenience of thieves and watchmen, when Britton pulled Learmont across the threshold to the little bar, where a man sat smoking with imperturbable gravity and placidity.
“Brandy!” cried Britton, as he reached over the bar, and snatched the pipe from the man, throwing it into the street.
The man was one of those slow thinkers, who are some time comprehending anything—so he merely stared at Britton, out of two exceedingly small eyes, that were nearly buried in mountains of flesh.
“Brandy!” again cried Britton, as he gave the front of the bar a clanging blow with the flat part of the cleaver, that made every bottle dance again, and so astonished the potman, that he slid from his chair, and sat on the ground, looking first at Britton, and then at Learmont, with as much alarm depicted in his countenance, as it could depict, considering it was by no means well calculated for portraying human feelings.
If the potman’s mind was rather overcome by the sudden abstraction of his pipe, the blow upon the bar with the cleaver completed a mystification which to all appearance, looked as if it would last a considerable time; so Britton, perceiving a little half door leading within the bar, on the swing, entered, without any ceremony, and laying violent hands on the first quart pot he saw, he drew liquor from every tap in succession that came to hand, until he had filled the measure with a combination of strong spirits, of which he took a long draught, and then handed it across to Learmont, who stood holding himself up by the bar, and but slightly conscious of where he was, or what Britton was doing.