And presently, my thirst recurring to me, I approached the inn, and descending three steps entered its cool shade. Here I found four men, each with his pipe and tankard, to whom a large, red-faced, big-fisted fellow was holding forth in a high state of heat and indignation.
"Wot's England a-comin' to?—that's wot I wants to know," he was saying; "wot's England a-comin' to when thievin' robbers can come a-walkin' in on you a-stealin' a pint o' your best ale out o' your very own tankard under your very own nose—wot's it a-comin' to?"
"Ah!" nodded the others solemnly, "that's it, Joel—wot?"
"W'y," growled the red-faced innkeeper, bringing his big fist down with a bang, "it's a-comin' to per—dition; that's wot it's a-comin' to!"
"And wot," inquired a rather long, bony man with a face half-hidden in sandy whisker, "wot might per—dition be, Joel; likewise, wheer?"
"You must be a danged fule, Tom, my lad!" retorted he whom they called
Joel, redder in the face than ever.
"Ay, that ye must!" chorused the others.
"I only axed 'wot an' wheer."
"Only axed, did ye?" repeated Joel scornfully,
"Ah," nodded the other, "that's all."