other two
retired behind the screen to be wiped. There he slipped a crown into the
servant's hand, and whispered him to keep his master sober and he should
have another.

Mr. Pomeroy saw nothing and heard nothing, and for a time suspected
nothing. The servant was a crafty fellow, a London rascal, deft at
whipping away full bottles. He was an age finding a clean glass, and
slow in drawing the next cork. He filled the host's bumper, and Mr.
Thomasson's, and had but half a glass for his master. The next bottle he
impudently pronounced corked, and when Pomeroy cursed him for a liar,
brought him some in an unwashed glass that had been used for Bordeaux.
The wine was condemned, and went out; and though Pomeroy, with
unflagging spirits, roared to Jarvey to open the other bottles, the
butler had got the office, and was slow to bring them. The cheese came
and went, and left Lord Almeric cooler than it found him. The tutor was
overjoyed at the success of his tactics.

But when the board was cleared, and the bottles were set on, and the men
withdrawn, Bully Pomeroy began to push what remained of the Brooks and
Hellier after a fashion that boded an early defeat to the tutor's
precautions. It was in vain Thomasson clung to the bottle and sometimes
returned it Hertfordshire fashion. The only result was that Mr. Pomeroy
smelt a rat, gave Lord Almeric a back-hander, and sent the bottle on
again, with a grin that told the tutor he was understood.

After that Mr. Thomasson had the choice between sitting still and taking
his own part. It was neck or nothing. Lord Almeric was already
hiccoughing and would soon be talking thickly. The next time the bottle
came round, the tutor retained it, and when Lord Almeric reached, for
it, 'No, my lord,' he said, laughing; 'Venus first and Bacchus
afterwards. Your lordship has to wait on the lady. When you come down,
with Mr. Pomeroy's leave, we'll crack another bottle.'

My lord withdrew his hand more readily than the other had hoped. 'Right,
Tommy,' he said. 'I'll wait till I come down. What's that song, "Rich
the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain"? Oh, no,
damme! I don't mean that,' he continued. 'No. How does it go?'

Mr. Pomeroy thrust the bottle into his hands, looking daggers the while
at the tutor. 'Take another glass,' he cried boisterously. ''Swounds,
the girl will like you the better for it.'

'D'ye think so, Pom? Honest?'

'Sure of it. 'Twill give you spiri