It was a reach which, unpreserved, was much favored of the townsfolk for fishing.
A man was whipping the stream now in its broadest part, and I stopped to watch him. He was a rosy, well-knit fellow of 35 or so, with a good-humored, bibulous eye and a foolish underjaw.
“Any sport?” I asked.
“Plenty o’ sport,” said he, “but no fish.”
“You’re a philosopher, it seems.”
“Mebbe I arm, for what it may mean. A pint of ale ’ud cure it.”
“Why not a pint of water? It’s there and to spare.”
“The beggar’s tap, master. I arns my living.”
“Well, buy your pot of ale out of it.”
“I’d rather you tuk the responsibility off me.”