“The Armenians,” said I; “O dear me, the Armenians—”
“Have you anything to say about these people, sir?” said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth.
“I have nothing further to say,” said I, “than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.”
“There’s half-a-crown broke,” said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. “You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”
CHAPTER LXXXIX.
The Dingle—Give them Ale—Not over Complimentary—America—Many People—Washington—Promiscuous Company—Language of the Roads—The Old Women—Numerals—The Man in Black.
The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. “I am glad you are returned,” said she, as soon as she perceived me; “I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?”
“Yes,” said I, “I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind,—I am much beholden to you.”
“I knew it would do you good,” said Belle; “I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, ‘Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.’”
“He was no advocate for tea, then?” said I.