“No, I don’t,” growled Harry. “I mean slip-coat, and a moog o’ ale.”
“Shall I go and fetch some, sir?” said Jacky Budd, eagerly.
“Thank you, no, Budd,” said the vicar, quietly. “I won’t take you from your work;” and, to Jacky’s great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of ale from his little cellar himself.
“He ain’t a bad un,” cried Harry, tearing away at the earth. “Keeps a drink o’ ale i’ the plaace. I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine.”
“Not always, my man,” said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug, and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out like a thirsty hound and pant.
“Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o’ vine over the window?”
“Get the what, Budd?” said the vicar, who looked puzzled.
“The leather, sir, the leather.”
“He means the lather, sir,” said Tom, quietly, “the lather to climb up.”
“Oh, the ladder,” said the vicar. “Yes, by all means,” he continued, smiling as he saw the clerk’s thirsty look. “I won’t ask you to drink, Budd,” he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty draught. “You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never like to interfere with a man’s principles, though I hold that beer in moderation is good for out-door workers.”