This proposal giving general satisfaction, the bottle circulated swiftly; and Smith found the liquor so much to his taste, that he made it pay double toll on its passage.

“Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. Wood,” observed Jackson, in a slightly-sarcastic tone.

“He’s not my son,” rejoined the carpenter.

“How, Sir?”

“Except by adoption.  Thames Darrell is—­”

“My husband nicknames him Thames,” interrupted Mrs. Wood, “because he found him in the river!—­ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha!” echoed Smith, taking another bumper of brandy; “he’ll set the Thames on fire one of these days, I’ll warrant him!”

“That’s more than you’ll ever do, you drunken fool!” growled Jackson, in an under tone:  “be cautious, or you’ll spoil all!”

“Suppose we send for a bowl of punch,” said Kneebone.

“With all my heart!” replied Wood.  And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone.

Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid.  The tables were then cleared.  Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates.  Pipes were lighted; and Mr. Kneebone began to dispense the fragrant fluid; begging Mrs. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—­a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud.

“The Chevalier shall hear of this,” whispered the woollen-draper.

“You don’t say so!” replied Mrs. Wood, delighted at the idea.

Mr. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table.

Mr. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following

    DRINKING SONG.

    I.

    Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip
      Are dug from the mines of canary;
    And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
      With hogsheads of claret and sherry.

    II.

    Jolly nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass
      Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
    And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
      Entertains the profoundest objection.

    III.

    For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
      And the choicest of wine is my colour;
    And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues
      The fuller I fill it—­the fuller!

    IV.

    Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight;
      Such dullards know nothing about it. 
    ’T is better, with wine, to extinguish the light,
      Than live always, in darkness, without it!

“How long may it be since that boy was found in the way Mrs. Wood mentions?” inquired Jackson, as soon as the clatter that succeeded Mr. Smith’s melody had subsided.