Of the King’s Treasure
“Ah!” says I, after a draught, and shaking my head sagely, “You may say that. Why, if ’twere not for me, that stands here, His Majesty might be ten thousand guineas the poorer this night.”
The chandler lifted his brows at the landlord again, and smiled and nodded, as though he would say, “We are getting to it now.” I brought my fist down upon the bench with a thump.
“Does any man tell me,” I says, “that I’m not the match of a dozen snarling rascals such as may chance to pounce upon His Majesty’s coach this side of Chatham?”
“What!” said the chandler, starting. “Is there an escort to Chatham to-night?”
“Rot me,” says I, feigning to stare at him stupidly. “Whose wits are wool-gathering that you gabble about Chatham? I know what I know,” I says, “and I can hold my tongue with any man.”
“Yes, yes,” says old Nick-and-Froth soothingly. “Indeed, sir, ’tis so. You are a very discreet gentleman, I’ll warrant, and a brave
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