“Here,” cried the smith, “drink some of that.”
Learmont took the quart measure, and lifted it to his lips mechanically, he drank some of the contents, and then handed it back to Britton, who, after pouring the remainder on the fat landlord’s head, gave him a thump with the measure, saying.
“That’s to clear your wits, and if you say that two gentlemen have been here with a cleaver. I’ll come back some day, and smash you.”
With this Britton hustled Learmont out of the house, and in about three quarters of an hour the fat landlord said,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
Learmont was half intoxicated with the draught of spirits he had taken, when he reached his own door-step, to which he was conducted by Britton, who said to him,—
“Now, squire you are home again, and that job’s jobbed; Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more, and as for his confession, why I begin to think as you do, that there never was one.”
“Ah, the confession—the confession!” gasped Learmont. “We are lost—we are lost, Britton—if, after all, there should be one found.”
“Go to the devil,” said Britton, as he shook himself free of the squire, and flourishing the cleaver proceeded on his way to the Chequers.
The first person that Britton encountered on his road home was a particularly slow-moving watchman, whom he levelled at once with a thwack between the shoulders, inflicted with the flat part of the cleaver. Then, when he reached the Chequers, it was a great satisfaction to him to find the door shut, because it gave him an opportunity of taking the heavy cleaver in both hands, and bringing it down with a blow upon the lock that on the instant smashed it, and burst the door wide open to the great consternation of the landlord, who immediately hid himself below the bar, and only peered up when he heard Britton’s voice exclaim,—