In the midst of a gay throng, in the production of which the Court of King James lagged little, if any, behind that of his brother, Charles, Adam Rust and Captain Phipps were prime favorites. Sir William, who had adopted a cane, gave no promise that he would ever be at home with the disciples of the minuet and the hunt, while Adam seemed a very part of the social mechanism.
Richly dressed, ready with his wit and his sword, handsome, wealthy enough to attract the soft glances of dames of all ages and degrees, he was a puzzle to the blunt captain, who had marked a change that had come upon him between going home from Jamaica and coming back again to help in recovering the treasure.
Whitehall was ablaze with light and warmth, which were reflected from myriad sparkling jewels and from rosy cheeks. The King had disappointed his guests, nevertheless they were not at a loss to find amusement. Ready as ever to entertain, either with a song for the ladies or a duel with the men, Adam was pressed for a roundel to fit the merry hour. He had found a glass which responded with a particularly musical tinkle to the tap of his finger. He held it up before the admiring company and rang it crisply. Catching the key from its mellifluous tintinnabulation he began his song:
“Oh your jolliest girl is your cup of sack,
Your Mistress Sack, with her warm, brown eyes;
She’ll love you, and never she’ll turn her back,
Nor leave you a thought
In her meshes uncaught,
And never you’ll know if she lies.
“Then it’s drink, drink, drink,