and above this the dim semblance of a man in gaiters and smock, bearing a whip in one hand while in the other he upheld a foaming beaker—but never in nature did ale or beer ever so foam, froth, bubble and seethe as did this painted waggoner's painted beer.
"What now?" enquired my companion, for I had halted. "What is it,
Peregrine?"
"The beer!" said I.
"Where, man, where?"
"Yonder!" and I pointed to the sign. "Did ever eyes behold beer so preternaturally frothy?"
"Of course not, Perry my lad, because reality is never so perfect as the dream! The cove who painted that was damnably dry, perishing of a noble thirst, not a doubt of it, and being a true artist he painted it all in—egad, there's thirst in every inch of that foam—it's a masterpiece!"
"It's a daub—and a bad one!" said I. "Indeed, on closer inspection the foam looks very like cheese!"
"Excellent—the poor painting-cove was hungry also, and there you are! I'd hang that thing in my dining room (supposing I had one) to get me an appetite—it's made me hungry already and as for the thirst—Oh, confound it—come on—"
"By no means!" said I resolutely. "Here is a cosy inn; here will we eat and sleep—"
"At your expense? Curse me, no, Peregrine."