In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon. The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house. “That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising. “Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it. “Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?” “Who’s here, King?” “Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey coat?” “The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?” “Ay, the same: do you know him?” “No, no, your Majesty.” “So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?” “Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!” “What’s that you mutter?” “I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your worship.” “Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?” “I—I—really don’t know.” At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,— “Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.” “What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.” “Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man. “Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—” “Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton. “Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—” “If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.” “The—the—death of me for saying lights?” “You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely. “Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic regard of the politic host.