Beneath the sign of that inn there lounged a knot of
officers wearing the flesh-coloured facings of the Buffs, and within
a young baritone voice was uplifted and trolling, to the
accompaniment of clinking glasses, a song of Mr. Shirley's:
You virgins that did late despair
To keep your wealth from cruel men,
Tie up in silk your careless hair:
Soft Peace is come again! . . .
There was one sitting-room but no bedroom to be had at the Three
Crowns. So they ordered up a dinner which they could not touch, but
sat over in silence for two weary hours, drinking very much more
burgundy than they were aware of. Captain Jemmy, taking up three
bottles one after another and finding them all empty, ordered up
three more, and drew his chair up to the hearth, where he sat kicking
the oaken logs viciously with his long legs. The little hunchback
stared out on the falling night, rang for candles, and began to pace
the room like a caged beast.
Before midnight Captain Runacles was drunk. Six fresh bottles stood
on the table. The man was a cask. Even in the warm firelight his
face was pale as a sheet, and his lips worked continually.
Captain Barker still walked up and down, but his thin legs would not
always move in a straight line.
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