Chapter 11

_"And the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_

An old English inn! What spot on earth is more hospitable, even though its floor be bare and its tables wooden? There is a homely atmosphere about it, with its cobwebbed rafters, its dingy windows, its big fireplace, where the rough logs crackle, and its musty ale. It has ever been a home for the belated traveller, where the viands, steaming hot, have filled his soul with joy. Oh, the Southdown mutton and the roasts of beef!

If England has given us naught else, she should be beloved for her wealth of inns, with their jolly landlords and their pert bar-maids and their lawns for the game of bowls. May our children's children find them still unchanged.

In a quaint corner of London, there stood such an inn, in the days of which we speak; and it lives in our story. When it was built, no one knew and none cared. Tradition said that it had been a rendezvous for convivial spirits for ages that had gone. A sign hung from the door, on which was a boar's head; and under it, in Old English lettering, might have been deciphered, if the reader had the wit to read, "Ye Blue Boar Inn."

It was the evening of a certain day, known to us all, in the reign of good King Charles. Three yesty spirits sat convivially enjoying the warmth of the fire upon the huge hearth. A keg was braced in the centre of the room. One of the merry crew--none other, indeed, than Swallow, a constable to the King--sat astride the cask, Don Quixote-like. In place of the dauntless lance, he was armed with a sturdy mug of good old ale. He sang gaily to a tune of his own, turning ever and anon for approbation to Buzzard, another spirit of like guild, who sat in a semi-maudlin condition by the table, and also to the moon-faced landlord of the inn, who encouraged the joviality of his guests--not forgetting to count the cups which they demolished.

Swallow sang:

_"Here's a health unto his Majesty, with a fa, la, fa, Conversion to his enemies with a fa, la, fa, And he that will not pledge his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself-- With a fa, la, fa, With a fa, la, fa."_

The song ended in a triumphant wave of glory. The singer turned toward the fellow, Buzzard, and demanded indignantly:

"Why don't ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?"

"My gullet's dry, Master Constable," stupidly explained his companion, as he too buried his face in the ale.

"Odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod," retorted the constable, wisely.

"Nay; I can sing as well as any man," answered Buzzard, indignantly, "an I know when to go up and when to come down." He pointed stupidly, contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling.

The landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. "When to go up and when to come down!" he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory gesture.

"Go to, simple," replied Swallow, with tremendous condescension of manner. "Thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. Pass the schnapps."

He arose and staggered to the table.

"Good Master Constable, how singest thou?" sheepishly inquired Buzzard, as he filled Swallow's tankard for the twentieth time.

"Marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?" demanded Swallow, pompously. He reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. "Oh, bury me here," he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then buried his face deep in the ale.

His companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it after him, each in his turn emphasizing the "me" and the "here"--"Oh, bury _me here!"_ "Oh, bury _me here!_"--Buzzard in a voice many tones deeper than that of Swallow and the landlord in a voice many tones deeper than that of Buzzard. Indeed, the guttural tones of the landlord bespoke the grave-yard.

The three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three jolly topers but for a woman's voice, calling sharply from the kitchen:

"Jenkins, love!"

"Body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard. "Coming, coming, my dear!" and he departed hastily.

The constable poked Buzzard in the ribs; Buzzard poked the constable in the ribs.

"Jenkins, love!" they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned, much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they poked fun at the taverner.

"Body o' me! Thou sly dog!" said the constable, as he continued to twit him. "Whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? A dimpled cook, eh?"

The landlord's face grew serious with offended dignity as he attempted to explain.

"'Tis my wife, Master Constable," he said.

"Marry, the new one?" inquired Swallow.

"'Tis not the old one, Master Swallow," replied the old hypocrite, wiping away a forced tear. "Poor soul, she's gone, I know not where."

"I' faith, I trow she's still cooking, landlord," consolingly replied the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the benefit of Buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask.

"Bless Matilde," said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, "I had a hard time to fill her place."

"Yea, truly," chuckled Swallow in Buzzard's ear, between draughts, "three long months from grave to altar."

"A good soul, a good soul, Master Swallow," continued the landlord, with the appearance of deep affliction.

"And a better cook, landlord," said Swallow, sadly. "Odsbud, she knew a gooseberry tart. Patch your old wife's soul to your new wife's face, and you'll be a happy man, landlord. Here's a drop to her."

"Thank ye, Master Constable," replied the landlord, much affected. He looked well to the filling of the flagon in his hand, again wiped a tear from his eye and took a deep draught to the pledge of

"The old one!"

Swallow, with equal reverence, and with some diplomacy, placed his flagon to his lips with the pledge of

"The new one!"

Buzzard, who had not been heard from for some time, roused sufficiently to realize the situation, and broke out noisily on his part with

"The next one!"

A startled expression pervaded the landlord's face as he realized the meaning of Buzzard's words. He glanced woefully toward the kitchen-door, lest the new wife might have overheard.

"Peace, Buzzard!" Swallow hastened to command, reprovingly. "Would ye raise a man's dead wife? Learn discretion from thy elders, an thou hop'st to be a married man."

"Marry, I do not hope," declared Buzzard, striking the table with his clenched hand. He had no time for matrimony while the cups were overflowing.

There was a quick, imperative knock at the door. The constable, Buzzard and the landlord, all started up in confusion and fear.

"Thieves," stammered Swallow, faintly, from behind the cask, from which he had dismounted at the first sign of danger. "They are making off with thy tit-bit-of-a-wife, landlord."

"Be there thieves in the neighbourhood, Master Constable?" whispered the landlord, in consternation.

"Why should his Majesty's constable be here else?" said Swallow, reaching for a pike, which trembled in his hand as if he had the ague. "The country about's o'er-run with them; and I warrant 'tis thy new wife's blue eyes they are after." He steadied himself with the pike and took a deep draught of ale to steady his courage as well.

Buzzard started to crawl beneath the table, but the wary constable caught him by his belt and made a shield for the nonce of his trembling body.

The landlord's eyes bulged from their sockets as if a spirit from the nether regions had confronted him. The corners of his mouth, which ascended in harmony with his moon-face, twitched nervously. "Mercy me, sayest thou so?" he asked.