The landlord, who was busy with the taps, affected not to hear.
“Killed the whole seventeen of ’em by first telling ’em yarns till they fell asleep and then choking ’em with Henry Wiggett’s wooden leg,” resumed the shoemaker.
“Kee—hee,” said a hapless listener, explosively. “Kee—hee—kee——”
He checked himself suddenly, and assumed an air of great solemnity as the landlord looked his way.
“You’d better go ’ome, Jem Summers,” said the fuming Mr. Ketchmaid. “You’re the worse for liker.”
“I’m not,” said Mr. Summers, stoutly.
“Out you go,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, briefly. “You know my rules. I keep a respectable house, and them as can’t drink in moderation are best outside.”
“You should stick to lemonade, Jem,” said Mr. Clark. “You can say what you like then.”
Mr. Summers looked round for support, and then, seeing no pity in the landlord’s eye, departed, wondering inwardly how he was to spend the remainder of the evening. The company in the bar gazed at each other soberly and exchanged whispers.
“Understand, Ned Clark,” said the indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, “I don’t want your money in this public-house. Take it somewhere else.”