“You’re good fellows,” he commended them. “Very good fellows.” And abruptly he added: “What should you say, now, to a cup of sack?”
Their eyes gleamed. Had it been ale they would have assented gladly enough. But sack! That was a nobleman’s drink that did not often come their lowly way. They looked at each other.
“Eh, Jake?” questioned one.
“A skew o’ bouze’ll never hurt, Nat,” said the other.
“That it won’t,” Nat agreed. “And there’s time to spare this evening. Her ladyship’ll be packing a while.”
They took the Colonel between them, and with arms linked the three set a course for the little alehouse at the corner of Portugal Row. The Colonel was more garrulous than ever, and very confidential. He had met a friend, he insisted upon informing them—an old brother-in-arms who had come upon fortunate days, from whom he had succeeded in borrowing a good round sum. Extending his confidence, he told them that probably it would be many days before he would be perfectly sober again. To this he added renewed assurances that he found them both very good fellows, lively companions these plaguy days, when the Town was as dull as a nunnery, and he swore that he would not be separated from them without a struggle.
Into the alehouse they rolled, to be skilfully piloted by the Colonel into a quiet corner well away from the windows and the light. He called noisily, tipsily, for the landlady, banging the table with the hilt of his sword. And when she made her appearance, he silenced her protests by his order.
“Three pints of Canary stiffly laced with brandy.”
As she departed, he pulled up a three-legged stool, and sat down facing the chairmen, who were licking their chops in anticipatory delight.