It was at this moment that Forrester entered the tavern-hall; curious to know the result of the trial, from which his attendance upon Ralph had unavoidably detained him.  The actors of the drama were in better humor than before, and uproarious mirth had succeeded to ferocity.  They were all in the very excess of self-glorification; for, though somewhat disappointed of their design, and defrauded of the catastrophe, they had nevertheless done much, according to their own judgment, and enough, perhaps, in that of the reader, for the purposes of justice.  The work of mischief had been fully consummated; and though, to their notion, still somewhat incomplete from the escape of the pedler himself, they were in great part satisfied—­some few among them, indeed—­and among these our quondam friend Forrester may be included—­were not sorry that Bunce had escaped the application of the personal tests which had been contemplated for his benefit; for, however willing, it was somewhat doubtful whether they could have been altogether able to save him from the hands of those having a less scrupulous regard to humanity.

The sudden appearance of Forrester revived the spirit of the transaction, now beginning somewhat to decline, as several voices undertook to give him an account of its progress.  The lawyer was in his happiest mood, as things, so far, had all turned out as he expected.  His voice was loudest, and his oratory more decidedly effective than ever.  The prospect before him was also of so seductive a character, that he yielded more than was his wont to the influences of the bottle-god:  who stood little iron-hooped keg, perched upon a shelf conveniently in the corner.

“Here Cuffee, you thrice-blackened baby of Beelzebub!—­why stand you there, arms akimbo, and showing your ivories, when you see we have no whiskey!  Bring in the jug, you imp of darkness—­touch us the Monongahela, and a fresh tumbler for Mr. Forrester—­and, look you, one too for Col.  Blundell, seeing he’s demolished the other.  Quick, you terrapin!”

Cuffee recovered himself in an instant.  His hands fell to his sides—­his mouth closed intuitively; and the whites of his eyes changing their fixed direction, marshalled his way with a fresh jug, containing two or more quarts, to the rapacious lawyer.

“Ah, you blackguard, that will do—­now, Mr. Forrester—­now, Col.  Blundell—­don’t be slow—­no backing out, boys—­hey, for a long drink to the stock in trade of our friend the pedler.”

So spoke Pippin; a wild huzza attested the good humor which the proposition excited.  Potation rapidly followed potation, and the jug again demanded replenishing.  The company was well drilled in this species of exercise; and each individual claiming caste in such circle, must be well prepared, like the knight-challenger of old tourney, to defy all comers.  In the cases of Pippin and Blundell, successive draughts, after the attainment of a certain degree of mental and animal