Then, drying her tears, she lifted proud head and walked with much dignified composure into the house.
CHAPTER XXII
WHICH RELATES HOW SERGEANT ZEBEDEE TRING
QUELLED SCANDAL WITH A PEWTER-POT
The tap-room of the ancient "George and Dragon" Inn is a long, low, irregular chamber full of odd and unexpected corners in one of which, towards the hour of three, sat Sergeant Zebedee Tring as was his wont so to do. A large tankard of foaming Kentish ale stood before him from which he regaled himself ever and anon the while he perused a somewhat crumpled and ragged news-sheet. But to-day, as the Sergeant alternately sipped and read he paused very often to frown across the length of the room towards a noisy group at the farther end; a boisterous company, whose fine clothes and smart liveries proclaimed their gilded servitude and who lounged, yawned, snuffed, sipped their wine or spirits and lisped polite oaths and fashionable scandal all with as fine, as correct and supercilious an air as either of their several masters could have done or any other fine gallants in St. James's. Moreover it was to be noticed, that each of them had modelled himself, in more or less degree, upon the gentleman who happened to rejoice in his service; hence man was faintly reminiscent of master.
"Josh, my nib," said an extremely languid individual, sticking out a leg and looking at it with as much lazy approval as my Lord Alvaston might have regarded his own shapely limb, "Josh, my sunbeam, there's something up—stap my vital organ!"
"Up, sir, up?" enquired a stoutish, pompous person, inhaling a pinch of snuff with all the graceful hauteur of Sir Benjamin himself, "Up, William—up what, up where? Od, sir—pronounce, discover."
"Josh, my bird, here's my guv'nor—here's Alvaston been a-sweating and swearing, writin' o' verses—poetical verses all the morning—which same is dooced queer, Josh, queer, fishy and highly disturbing—burn my neck if t'ain't."
"Od!" exclaimed the dignified Josh, "Od, sir, I protest 'tis a amazing co-in-seedence, here's mine been doing the actool same—I found Sir Benjamin up to the same caper, sir—ink all over 'imself—his ruffles—'oly heaven. And poitry too, William, s'elp me!"
"Egad! My eye!" exclaimed a pale youth remarkable for a long nose and shrill voice, "O strike me pale blue, 'tis a plague o' po'try and they've all been and took it. Here's Marchdale rings me up at three o'clock in the morning and when I tumbled up, here's him in his nightcap and a bottle o' port as I thought I'd put safe out of his reach, a-staring doleful at a sheet o' paper. 'Horace,' says he, fierce-like, 'Give me a rhyme for "Bet,"' says he. 'Sir, I hasn't got e'er a one about me,' I says. 'Then find one this instant,' says he. 'Why then sir, 'ow about "debt?"' I says and he—ups and throws the bottle at me!"