“And pray what is the axey?”
“Don’t tell ’im, Jarge!” snarled Mr. Dumbrell. “’E mus’ be a barn fule.”
“’Tis the ager, sir,” explained the patient Potter.
“Is your ague indeed so bad, Mr. Dumbrell?”
“Bad?” screeched the old man—“worse’n bad it be, ah, a sight worse! Nobody never ’ad it so worse as oi, nowhen! Shook arl to liddle bits oi be——”
“Why, then, let us haste to ‘The Acorn’ forthwith.”
Thither they repaired in company, and found it to be a small, yet cheery-looking hedge-tavern set at a bend of the tree-shaded road and presided over by a large and cheery man remarkable for the width of his smile and a pair of huge, hairy arms; a man who greeted them cheerily and at whom Mr. Potter, in the act of aiding the Ancient One to earth, cocked an eyebrow and lightly caressed his left whisker; whereupon the cheery landlord nodded.
“Aye, aye, Jarge!” quoth he. “Same time, I reckon?”
“Near as mebbe, Ed’ard!” nodded Mr. Potter.