“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.” “My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.” The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it. The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?” “Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.” The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,— “Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.” “That’s true,” said Britton. “But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.” “And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith. This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not. “Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat. “The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare. “So he is,” cried several voices. “No he ain’t,” roared Britton. “N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth. “But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever. After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with. This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was. “Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.” The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,— “Damnation for Jacob Gray!”