The song ended in a triumphant wave of glory. The singer turned toward
the fellow, Buzzard, and demanded indignantly:

"Why don't ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?"

"My gullet's dry, Master Constable," stupidly explained his companion,
as he too buried his face in the ale.

"Odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod," retorted the constable,
wisely.

"Nay; I can sing as well as any man," answered Buzzard, indignantly, "an
I know when to go up and when to come down." He pointed stupidly,
contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling.

The landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. "When to go up and when to
come down!" he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory
gesture.

"Go to, simple," replied Swallow, with tremendous condescension of
manner. "Thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. Pass the schnapps."

He arose and staggered to the table.

"Good Master Constable, how singest thou?" sheepishly inquired Buzzard,
as he filled Swallow's tankard for the twentieth time.

"Marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?" demanded Swallow,
pompously. He reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. "Oh,
bury me here," he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then
buried his face deep in the ale.

His companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it
after him, each in his turn emphasizing the "me" and the "here"--"Oh,
bury _me here!"_ "Oh, bury _me here!_"--Buzzard in a voice
many tones deeper than that of Swallow and the landlord in a voice many
tones deeper than that of Buzzard. Indeed, the guttural tones of the
landlord bespoke the grave-yard.

The three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in
unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three
jolly topers but for a woman's voice, calling sharply from the kitchen:

"Jenkins, love!"

"Body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard.
"Coming, coming, my dear!" and he departed hastily.

The constable poked Buzzard in the ribs; Buzzard poked the constable in
the ribs.

"Jenkins, love!" they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned,
much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they
poked fun at the taverner.

"Body o' me! Thou sly dog!" said the constable, as he continued to twit
him. "Whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? A dimpled
cook, eh?"

The landlord's face grew