"I'll give him forty pound, I will," blubbered Mr. Pinchin, still on his knees. "I'll give him fifty pound when my Midsummer rents come in, only let him rescue me from the jaws of the roaring lion. Oh, my Mamma! my mamma!" "Come forward, then, young man," cried the Chaplain, with a smile of disdain on his good-humoured countenance, "and help this worthy and courageous gentleman to his legs. Don't be afraid, Squire Barty. _He_ won't murder you." I advanced in obedience to the summons, and putting a hand under either armpit of the Squire, helped him on to his feet. Then, at a nod of approval, I set him in the great arm-chair of Utrecht velvet. Then I pointed to the bottle on the table, and looked at Mr. Hodge, as though to ask whether he thought a glass of Burgundy would do the patient good. "No," said the Chaplain. "He's had enough Burgundy. He'd better have a flask of champagne to give him some spirits. Will you drink a flask of champagne, Squire?" he continued, addressing his patron in a strangely authoritative voice. "Yes," quoth the little man, whose periwig was all Awry, and who looked, on the whole, a most doleful figure,--"yes, if you please, Mr. Hodge." "Vastly pretty! And what am I to have? _I_ think I should like some Burgundy." "Any thing," murmured the discomfited Squire; "only spare my--" "Tush! your life's in no danger. _We'll_ take good care of it. And this most obliging English youth,--will your Honour offer him no refreshment? What is he to have?" "Can he drink beer?" asked the Squire, in a faint voice, and averting his head, as though the having to treat me was too much for him. "Can you drink beer?" echoed the Chaplain, looking at me, but shaking his head meanwhile, as if to warn me not to consent to partake of so cheap a beverage. "It's very cheap," added Mr. Pinchin, very plaintively. "It isn't a farthing a glass; and when you get used to it, it's better for the inwards than burnt brandy. Have a glass of beer, good youth. Kind Mr. Hodge, let them bring him a glass of Faro." "Hang your faro! I don't like it," I said, bluntly. "What will you have, then?" asked the Squire, with a gasp of agony, and his head still buried in the chair-cushion. It seemed that the Chaplain's lips, as he looked at me, were mutely forming the letters W I N E. So I put a bold front upon it, and said, "Why, I should like, master, to drink your health in a bumper of right Burgundy with this good Gentleman here." "He will have Burgundy," whimpered Mr. Pinchin, half to the chair-cushion, and half to his periwig. "He will have Burgundy. The ragged, tall young man will have Burgundy at eight livres ten sols the flask. Oh, let him have it, and let me die! for he and the Parson have sworn to my Mamma to murder me and have my blood, and leave me among Smugglers, and Papistry, and Landlords who have sworn to ruin me in waxen candles."