“Curse you all!—Where are you? Boil me some brandy, I say, or I’ll smash everything in the place.”
“Oh, dear, your majesty! So you’ve come home,” faltered the landlord; “dear me!”
Britton’s only reply to this conciliatory speech was to throw the cleaver at the landlord’s head, who only escaped it by ducking in time, when it flew over him, smashing some dozens of glasses, and producing a noise and confusion within the bar that was quite gratifying to Britton’s feelings.
“Hilloa!” cried Bond, when he saw Britton enter the parlour. “Here have I been waiting for you, I don’t know how long.”
“Who told you to wait?” roared Britton.
“Nobody,” shouted Bond, in as high a tone. “Where’s my cleaver?”
“In the bar. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the butcher, “I did hear a smash. You are a great genius, Britton. I say, have you settled that fellow, eh?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Oh? Nothing, I only asked. I suppose he was one too many for you?”