“I’ve got elevenpence, ma’am; and could, I dare say, buy a pot of beer, though I don’t know the price of one; but I don’t see where I’m going to get any more money, and what we have must serve Abdiel and me till we do.”
“What right have you to a dog, when you ain’t fit to pay your penny for a half-pint o’ beer?”
“Don’t be hard on the young ’un, mis’ess; he don’t look a bad sort!” said a man who stood by with a pewter pot in his hand.
Clare wondered why he had his cord-trousers pulled up a few inches and tied under his knees with a string, which made little bags of them there. He had to think for a mile after they left the public-house before he discovered that it was to keep them from tightening on his knees when he stooped, and so incommoding him at his work.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m not a bad sort. I didn’t know it was any harm to ask for water. It ain’t begging, is it, sir?”
“Not as I knows on,” replied the man. “Here, take the lot!”
He offered Clare his nearly emptied pewter.
“No, thank you, sir,” answered Clare. “I am thirsty—but not so thirsty as to take your drink from you. I can get on to the next pump. Perhaps that won’t be chained up like a bull!”
“Here, mis’ess!” cried the man. “This is a mate as knows a neighbour when he sees him. I’ll stand him a half-pint. There’s yer money!”
Without a word the woman flung the man’s penny in the till, and drew Clare a half-pint of porter. Clare took it eagerly, turned to the man, said, “I thank you, sir, and wish your good health,” and drained the pewter mug. He had never before tasted beer, or indeed any drink stronger than tea, and he did not like it. But he thanked his benefactor again, and went back to the trough.