“I never get tired o’ hearing that yarn,” said the affable Mr. Smith.
“I do,” said Mr. Clark.
Mr. Ketchmaid looked up from his pipe and eyed him darkly; the shoemaker smiled serenely.
“Another small bottle o’ lemonade, landlord,” he said, slowly.
“Go and get your lemonade somewhere else,” said the bursting Mr. Ketchmaid.
“I prefer to ’ave it here,” rejoined the shoemaker, “and you’ve got to serve me, Ketchmaid. A licensed publican is compelled to serve people whether he likes to or not, else he loses of ’is license.”
“Not when they’re the worse for licker he ain’t,” said the landlord.
“Certainly not,” said the shoemaker; “that’s why I’m sticking to lemonade, Ketchmaid.”
The indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, removing the wire from the cork, discharged the missile at the ceiling. The shoemaker took the glass from him and looked round with offensive slyness.
“Here’s the ’ealth of Henry Wiggett what lost ’is leg to save Mr. Ketchmaid’s life,” he said, unctuously. “Also the ’ealth of Sam Jones, who let hisself be speared through the chest for the same noble purpose. Likewise the health of Captain Peters, who nursed Mr. Ketchmaid like ’is own son when he got knocked up doing the work of five men as was drowned; likewise the health o’ Dick Lee, who helped Mr. Ketchmaid capture a Chinese junk full of pirates and killed the whole seventeen of ’em by—’Ow did you say you killed’em, Ketchmaid?”