“After all—what is a mug of beer?” argued Andy. “I’m not a total abstainer myself, but I will become one if you will.”
Sam’s potations of the previous night still hung about him sufficiently to make him very irritable, and he suddenly lost control of his temper.
“It’s all very well talking like that,” he said. “You, who don’t care whether you ever have another drink or not—what do you know about it? Give up the thing you like best and then I’ll do the same.”
Andy looked at the man, and the mantle of the senior curate was blown away in the blast of truth that swept across him. He even forgot to notice the disrespectfulness of Sam’s manner as that wind burst open a closed chamber in his mind and he saw farther than he had ever done before.
“All right,” he said simply. “I like”—he sought for his preference—“I like butter best of anything—always did, as a little kid—I’ll give up that.”
“I’ll give up beer, then,” agreed Sam Petch; but he made certain mental reservations of which Andy, naturally, could know nothing. Every man had a right to beer on a Saturday night, of course; that was the privilege of a British working-man which was above and beyond all other agreements.
Then Andy went back into the house with a complete sense of failure dogging his footsteps. It was a ridiculous and undignified thing to do, to make a compact of that nature with a drunken gardener. He ought to have insisted in a dignified manner upon instant reform or instant dismissal.
“Mrs. Jebb,” he said, looking in at the kitchen door, “please do not send butter into the room with my meals. I shall not be taking any for some time.”
“What? No butter?” said Mrs. Jebb. “Are you bilious? Well, I know towards the last Mr. Jebb never could——”
“And I am dining out to-night,” continued Andy, who was particularly disinclined, just then, for Mr. Jebb.