“You be d—d!” was the elegant rejoinder. “Hurrah! Come along, Bond, now for it.”
Upon this the butcher took from one capacious pocket the same cleaver which had been the instrument of Jacob Gray’s murder, and from another a large bone, with which he executed such a lively tune upon the flat of the weapon, that Britton roared again with mirth and after a wild dance, sat down, on the floor, and shouted like a wild animal. Then he caught hold of the Honourable Georgiana Brereton’s foot, and her white satin slipper coming off in his hands, he fell on the flat of his back, while shouts, screams, roars of laughter, and the clapping of hands, sounded through the saloon.
Learmont made a rush from the rooms, and summoning all the servants he could meet with, he brought them back with him, in order that they might eject Britton and Bond; but by this time the smith had arisen from the floor, and turning to the squire, he said,—
“Honour bright, and no nonsense. D—n it, squire, a joke’s a joke. We’re off again. I’ve had my fun, and there’s an end of it. Ladies and gentlemen you may all be d—d! Strike up, Bond.”
The butcher again played the marrow-bone and cleaver, and with many whirls, shouts, and singular gyrations, he and Britton left the saloon.
Learmont stood for some moments trembling with rage: then, suddenly, he cried,—
“Music—music—the dance—the dance—a mere jest. Music, I say.”
A crash of melody followed his call, and he was looking for the lady he had left when a domino in a black velvet cloak met his eye.
The domino bowed and unmasked.
“The rooms are warm, squire.”