“You can’t,” said the stranger. “Now by the mass that beats all the impudence ever I heard of,” cried the landlord. “Here, Gregory—Gregory! My staff! We will have this fellow out in the king’s name. My staff, I say! Was there ever such a rogue to assault my best customers; and then not run away.” The stranger laughed in spite of himself at this last remark of the landlord’s and turning to the company, he said,— “Every one here present can witness that I only interfered with this drunken ruffian to prevent him from committing an assault upon a maniac, and his present condition arises partly from intoxication, and partly from falling over a chair in an attempt to attack me.” “You are a scoundrel,” said the landlord. “Out with him! Turn him out!” cried the company, with one voice. “My staff! My staff!” roared the landlord, gathering courage from the unanimous support he seemed likely to receive. “You need not trouble yourself for your staff,” said the stranger, “I am going, and if you required a staff, I, could lend you mine, friend.” The stranger took from his pocket, as he spoke, a small bright silver staff. “W—w—what! Who—who are you?” stammered the landlord. “It matters not just now who I am,” said the stranger, “but look to your house, sir—it has grown disorderly of late.” With a slow step the stranger then left the room, amid an universal stare of astonishment from the company. “Well, I never—” cried the landlord, “a silver staff! He belongs to the office of the High Bailiff of Westminster, as I’m a sinner.” “And yet you wanted to turn him out,” said the cordwainer. “Landlord, you are an intemperate man,” said another. “The landlord’s a fool,” cried a third. “Not to know an officer!” cried a fourth. “Ah—ah!” chimed in three or four more. “Why—why you all called turn him out,” said the discomfited landlord. “Ah—yes,” said the man who had prepared to drink Britton’s health—“but we meant you.” “Yes—yes! Hear—hear!” cried everybody; “we meant turn out the landlord.” “The deuce you did.” “Where—where—is she? Curses on her—where is she—is it a dream?” murmured Britton, recovering from his mixed state of insensibility, produced by drink and a blow of his head against the floor. “Was—it true—eh?” continued Britton; “where the devil am I now? Can’t you speak, none of you?” The landlord turned to the company, and placed his fingers confidentially and knowingly against the side of his nose, in intimation that he was about to perpetrate some piece of extreme cleverness not quite consistent with truth. Then, turning to Britton, he said in a commiserating tone,— “Good luck, Master King Britton, your majesty certainly took forty winks in a chair, and by some sudden move, it has upset your majesty.” “Is—is—that it?” said Britton, looking around him with heavy eyes. “Yes all these honourable gentlemen can bear me out in what I say.” “Curse me, then, if ever I had such a dream,” said Britton.