“Oh!” said Britton. “So you’ve had your say, Squire Learmont—you threaten to hang me, do you? Ho! Ho! Ho!—The same length of cord that hangs me will make a noose for your own neck. You will lay a plot to destroy me, will—beware, Squire Learmont! I have laid a mine for you—a mine that will blow you to h—ll, when I choose to fire the train. I don’t want to quarrel with you; I’ve done a black job or two for you, and you don’t much like paying for them; but then you know you must, and there’s an end to that. Now for the familiarity business: I give in a little there, squire, d—me! Justice is justice—give every dog his day! I have been cursedly drunk, I suppose, and made an ass of myself. I came here, though, now I recollect, with a good motive,—it was to warn you. But mind you, squire, don’t call me any ugly names again—I won’t stand them. Be civil, and growl as much as you like—curse you! Be genteel, and don’t provoke me.” “Solemnly promise me that you will only come here at stated times, from visit to visit, to be arranged,” said Learmont, “and I am willing to forget the past.” “Well, that’s fair,” cried Britton. “When I’ve had a drop, I’m a little wild or so,—d—n it! I always was.” “You consent?” “I do. Now give me my fee.” “Your fee?” “Yes; ten pounds.” Learmont took out the sum required from his purse, and handed it to Britton, saying as he did so,— “And when shall I be honoured again with your next visit?” “What’s to-day, squire?” “Thursday.” “Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning. If I’ve been sober on Friday night, we’ll say eleven o’clock; if drunk, make it two or three.” A low tap at the door now announced some one, and Learmont went to see who it was. “The—the—breakfast—for two, your honour—is—is—laid in the south parlour,” stammered a servant, with a frightened aspect. “Oh, it is, is it?” said Britton. “Then you may eat it yourself, for I ain’t going to stay to breakfast with his worship.” “Yes, yes,” said the servant, disappearing. “There now,” cried Britton, “ain’t I respectful? You see I ain’t going to touch your breakfast, I dare say I shall get a d—d sight better one at the Chequers. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a king, then. Who’d have thought of that—King Britton, the jolly smith of Learmont.” “You said you came to warn me of somebody or something,” suggested Learmont. “So I did,” replied the smith. “That cursed Hartleton has got some crotchet or another in his head, you may depend. He came in disguise to the Chequers to watch me. Beware of him, squire. If I catch him prying into my affairs, and listening to what I say over my glass, I’ll meet him alone some dark evening, and there will be a vacancy in the magistracy. Perhaps, squire, you could step into his shoes. That would be glorious. I’d have a row every night, and you could smother it up in the morning, besides paying all the expenses. Good morning to you squire. Take care, of yourself.” CHAPTER XLVIII. The Escape.—A Song of the Times.