Nerveless with terror the man let fall the bottle, simply because he couldn’t hold it; and, dropping on his pads of knees, howled for mercy. “God save me, sir--I never did! The wine wasn’t hocussed, sir. Your honour saw the cork drawn!” At this--“Harkee, fellow!” called Sir David, striking in, “d’ye think I, a Justice of the Peace, will endure this gallows’ game in our midst?” Mr. Tuke laughed afresh. “Oh, fie, Mr. Breeds!” said he. “So you must own to a bin of ready-drugged?” The landlord ducked behind the counter, and cried abjectly from that beery covert: “Don’t shoot, sir--don’t shoot! If the stuff was headstrong, ’twas none of my contriving. There have been lither knaves compelling me of late.” The two men exchanged a glance. “Well,” said Mr. Tuke, “you can show your head above, and e’en draw the cork after your own fashion.” The cumbrous creature scrambled to his feet, puffing and sweltering; and so manipulated the bottle with shaking hands. “And whither are your guests flown?” said one of the gentlemen. “Meanin’ Mr. Fern and his off-scourings, sir? To Botany Bay, whence they came, is my desperate hope. As cozening scoundrels, your noble honours, as ever practised on a decent innkeeper.” “You were no party to their roguery, then?” “Party!” (the man was fussing and feinting with his corkscrew). “Mr. Tuke, sir, I was terrified of my life while the reskels remained. The shadow of ’em lay like as a blight on my custom.” “And you have the assurance to tell me that they coerced you?” “So help me, sir, they did.” “With what object?” The man stuttered and went clammy. “Answer, fellow!” cried Sir David. “I protest, gentlemen, I was unacquent of their intentions.” “What! you were compelled, and you are ignorant whereto?” “To shut my eyes, sir--to shut my eyes, noble gentlemen. That’s the sum of my knowledge.” “Mr. Breeds,” said Tuke, quietly, “have you ever heard tell of the Lake of Wine?” He watched the man narrowly. He could not have sworn to any particular intelligence in those viscous eyes. “Not to my cost,” said the landlord, with a sickly attempt at jocosity, “or I should fill my vats at it.” “Well,” said Sir David, impatiently, “you say your company is departed. And whither?” “To the gallows, for all it concerns me, sir.” “And thither, ’tis presumptive, you may follow. Now I give you a note of warning--take thought of whom you house for the future.” He looked at the man sternly. The latter had not a word to say, but much abasement to express. On the road home: “Do you think he is in the plot?” said Sir David. “Yes, by heavens, I do. A very door-keeper to roguery. He hath the wit to denounce guilt, but not to look innocence.” “Then, may I ask, why the devil you named the stone to him?”