“Yes, sir, quite new—fresh from Hastings,” said the girl eagerly. And she produced a box full of brown, shiny-topped squares.
“Was it some of this old Dicksee had yesterday?” said Mercer.
“Yes, sir. I opened the fresh box for him, and he had four tuppenny bits.”
“Then we will not,” said my companion sharply. “Let’s have biscuits instead.”
The biscuits were placed before us, and the keeper’s daughter then took a couple of tied-down stone bottles from a shelf.
“I say,” cried Mercer, “I didn’t introduce you. Burr junior, this is Polly Hopley. Polly, this is—”
“Yes, sir, I know. I heard you tell father,” said the woman quickly, as she cut the string.
Pop!
Out came the opal-looking, bubbling liquid into a grey mug covered with stripes, and then Pop! again, and a mug was filled for my companion, ready for us to nod at each other and take a deep draught of the delicious brewing—that carefully home-made ginger-beer of fifty years ago—so mildly effervescent that it could be preserved in a stone bottle, and its cork held with a string. A very different beverage to the steam-engine-made water fireworks, all wind, fizzle, cayenne pepper, and bang, that is sold now under the name.
“Polly makes this herself on purpose for us,” said Mercer importantly. “We boys drink it all.”