le and discharging it at the window; but, either not
possessing the jockey's accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he
flung his bottle so that it struck against part of the wooden setting of
the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to
pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back
into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. "What do you think
of that?" said the jockey; "were you ever so honoured before?"
"Honoured!" said I. "God preserve me in future from such honour;" and I
put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the
glass. "That's the way we of the cofrady honour great men at
Horncastle," said the jockey. "What, you are hurt! never mind; all the
better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid
to." "And what are you going to do with the other bottle?" said I. "Do
with it!" said the jockey, "why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst
holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an
idea!"

"And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you
have caused him?"

"What will your master say, William?" said the jockey to the waiter, who
had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the
slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his
shoulders, replied, "Very little, I dare say, sir; this a'n't the first
time your honour has done a thing of this kind." "Nor will it be the
first time that I shall have paid for it," said the jockey; "well, I
shall have never paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure
than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us
taste the pink champagne."

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor,
which bubbled, hissed, and foamed. "How do you like it?" said the
jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions by despatching
my portion at a draught.

"It is wonderful wine," said I; "I have never tasted champagne before,
though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my
expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it
every day."

"Nor I," said the jockey; "for everyday drinking give me a glass of old
port, or . . ."

"Of hard old ale," I interposed, "which, according to my mind, is better
than all the wine in the world."

"Well said, Romany Rye," said the jockey, "just my