"Home pork, brother Tony," said the farmer, approvingly.
"And home-made bread, too, brother William John," said Anthony, becoming brisk.
"Ay, and the beer, such as it is." The farmer drank and sighed.
Anthony tried the beer, remarking, "That's good beer; it don't cost much."
"It ain't adulterated. By what I read of your London beer, this stuff's not so bad, if you bear in mind it's pure. Pure's my motto. 'Pure, though poor!'"
"Up there, you pay for rank poison," said Anthony. "So, what do I do? I drink water and thank 'em, that's wise."
"Saves stomach and purse." The farmer put a little stress on 'purse.'
"Yes, I calculate I save threepence a day in beer alone," said Anthony.
"Three times seven's twenty-one, ain't it?"
Mr. Fleming said this, and let out his elbow in a small perplexity, as
Anthony took him up: "And fifty-two times twenty-one?"