“Did ye hear me speak, me girl?” he said in that quiet tone, which no one inside the inn dared to disobey. “Get on with my Lord Tony’s supper, for, if it ain’t the best we can do, and ’e not satisfied, see what you’ll get, that’s all.”
Reluctantly Sally obeyed.
“Is you ’xpecting special guests then tonight, Mr. Jellyband?” asked Jimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to divert his host’s attention from the circumstances connected with Sally’s exit from the room.
“Aye! that I be,” replied Jellyband, “friends of my Lord Tony hisself. Dukes and duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the young lord and his friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have helped out of the clutches of them murderin’ devils.”
But this was too much for Mr. Hempseed’s querulous philosophy.
“Lud!” he said, “what do they do that for, I wonder? I don’t ’old not with interferin’ in other folks’ ways. As the Scriptures say—”
“Maybe, Mr. ’Empseed,” interrupted Jellyband, with biting sarcasm, “as you’re a personal friend of Mr. Pitt, and as you says along with Mr. Fox: ‘Let ’em murder!’ says you.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,” feebly protested Mr. Hempseed, “I dunno as I ever did.”
But Mr. Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting upon his favourite hobbyhorse, and had no intention of dismounting in any hurry.
“Or maybe you’ve made friends with some of them French chaps ’oo they do say have come over here o’ purpose to make us Englishmen agree with their murderin’ ways.”
“I dunno what you mean, Mr. Jellyband,” suggested Mr. Hempseed, “all I know is—”
“All I know is,” loudly asserted mine host, “that there was my friend Peppercorn, ’oo owns the Blue-Faced Boar, an’ as true and loyal an Englishman as you’d see in the land. And now look at ’im!—’E made friends with some o’ them frog-eaters, ’obnobbed with them just as if they was Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral, Godforsaking furrin’ spies. Well! and what happened? Peppercorn ’e now ups and talks of revolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats, just like Mr. ’Empseed over ’ere!”
“Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,” again interposed Mr. Hempseed feebly, “I dunno as I ever did—”
Mr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who were listening awestruck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr. Peppercorn’s defalcations. At one table two customers—gentlemen apparently by their clothes—had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes, and had been listening for some time, and evidently with much amusement at Mr. Jellyband’s international opinions. One of them now, with a quiet, sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where Mr. Jellyband was standing.
“You seem to think, mine honest friend,” he said quietly, “that these Frenchmen—spies I think you called them—are mighty clever fellows to have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn’s opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?”
“Lud! sir, I suppose they talked ’im over. Those Frenchies, I’ve ’eard it said, ’ave got the gift of the gab—and Mr. ’Empseed ’ere will tell you ’ow it is that they just twist some people round their little finger like.”
“Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?” inquired the stranger politely.
“Nay, sir!” replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, “I dunno as I can give you the information you require.”
“Faith, then,” said the stranger, “let us hope, my worthy host, that these clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyal opinions.”
But this was too much for Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant equanimity. He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those who happened to be in his debt.
“Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!” He laughed in every key, did my worthy host, and laughed until his sides ached, and his eyes streamed. “At me! hark at that! Did ye ’ear ’im say that they’d be upsettin’ my opinions?—Eh?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.”
“Well, Mr. Jellyband,” said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, “you know what the Scriptures say: ‘Let ’im ’oo stands take ’eed lest ’e fall.’ ”
“But then hark’ee Mr. ’Empseed,” retorted Jellyband, still holding his sides with laughter, “the Scriptures didn’t know me. Why, I wouldn’t so much as drink a glass of ale with one o’ them murderin’ Frenchmen, and nothin’ ’d make me change my opinions. Why! I’ve ’eard it said that them frog-eaters can’t even speak the King’s English, so, of course, if any of ’em tried to speak their Godforsaken lingo to me, why, I should spot them directly, see!—and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.”
“Aye! my honest friend,” assented the stranger cheerfully, “I see that you are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here’s to your very good health, my worthy host, if you’ll do me the honour to finish this bottle of mine with me.”
“I am sure you’re very polite, sir,” said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his eyes which were still streaming with the abundance of his laughter, “and I don’t mind if I do.”
The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and having offered one to mine host, he took the other himself.
“Loyal Englishmen as we all are,” he said, whilst the same humorous smile played round the corners of his thin lips—“loyal as we are, we must admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us from France.”
“Aye! we’ll none of us deny that, sir,” assented mine host.
“And here’s to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr. Jellyband,” said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.
“Hip, hip, hurrah!” retorted the whole company present. Then there was a loud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a rattling music upon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing in particular, and of Mr. Jellyband’s muttered exclamations:
“Just fancy me bein’ talked over by any Godforsaken furriner!—What?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.”
To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was certainly a preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr. Jellyband’s firmly-rooted opinions anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants of the whole
