He gave him the last piece of his meat, and they trudged on for some time without speaking.
The sun was very hot, for it was past noon an hour or two, when they came to a public-house, with a pump before it, and a trough. Clare grew very thirsty when he saw the pump, and imagined the rush of a thick sparkling curve from its spout. But its handle was locked with a chain, to keep men and women from having water instead of beer. He went with longing to the trough, but the water in it was so unclean that, thirsty as he was, he could not look on it even as a last resource. He walked into the house.
Clare and Abdiel at the locked pump.
“Please, ma’am,” he said to the woman at the bar, “would you allow me to pump myself a little water to drink?”
“You think I’ve got nothing to do but serve tramps with water!” she answered, throwing back her head till her nostrils were at right angles with the horizon.
“I’m not a tramp, ma’am,” said Clare.
“Show me your money, then, for a pot of beer, like other honest folk.”
“I’m afraid I told you wrong, ma’am,” returned Clare. “I’m afraid I am a tramp after all; only I’m looking for work, and most tramps ain’t, I fancy.”
“They all say they are,” answered the woman. “That’s your story, and that’s theirs!”