CHAPTER XXIX
TOM GLAZE TO THE RESCUE
"Oh, here's to the ale,
The merry King Ale,
It makes one jolly
Though home comforts fail;
We'll swing and we'll sing,
Merry as a king,
The tankard we love
For the joy it'll bring."
Chorus.
"Then swing tankard round
With ale pale or brown,
We'll clunk and we'll clunk
Till we clunk un all down!
Down! Down!
"King George, rich and hale,
Is naught to King Ale,
He reigns and cares not
For the poor man's wail,
But jolly King Ale
Makes sorrow to fail,
Huzza for the tankard
Of rud, brown or pale."
Loud and boisterous came the roaring voices of half-drunken tipplers from behind the green doors of an ale-house in the upper part of Falmouth. At the close of each chorus there was a thumping of tankards and fists upon the tables within that made the midnight hour a perfect babel of sounds.
"That's Tom Puckinharn's voice, I could swear to un," said a tall, well-built man, as he paused on the pavement without. He was talking to himself and evidently referred to one voice louder than the others, leading the chorus. A frown swept over his rugged features.
"Here I be following 'im all the evening from tavern to tavern and just missin' 'im at every place, and he a-spending his 'ard-earned money in drink and his poor wife, Susy, at home a-crying her eyes out. If it wadn't that I had promised Susy to fetch 'im home I'd wash my 'ands and disown 'im."