Then the jug was passed, after a deep sigh, to Dave, who also took a long draught, which made Jacob sigh as he turned to go for some more wood, when he was checked by a hollow growl from Dave, which came out of the pot.
But Jacob knew what it meant, and stopped, waiting patiently till Dave took the brown jug from his lips, and passed it to the apprentice, letting off the words now:
“Finish it.”
Jacob was a most obedient apprentice, so he proceeded to “finish it,” while the wheelwright and Dave went to the workshop, and as he was raising the vessel high Tom Tallington stooped, picked up a chip of wood from a heap, gave Dick a sharp look, and pitched it with so good an aim that it hit the jug, and before the drinker could lower it, Tom had hopped back against the cart, striking against the gun, and nearly knocking it down.
“I see yow, Masr’ Dick,” said Jacob, grinning; “but yow don’t get none. Ale arn’t good for boys.”
“Get out!” cried Dick; “why, you’re only a boy yourself. ’Prentice, ’prentice!”
“Not good for boys,” said Jacob again as he finished the last drop perseveringly, so that there should be none left; and then went indoors with the jug.
“Dick—I say,” whispered Tom as, after slipping one band into the big open pocket of the hanging coat, he drew out a well scraped and polished cow-horn with a cork in the thin end.
Chip, the dog, who was watching, uttered a remonstrant bark, but the boys paid no heed, being too intent upon the plan that now occurred to one, and was flashed instantaneously to the other.
“Yes, do,” whispered Dick. “How much is there in it?”