Foster turned and looked out at the weathered sign creaking in the evening wind. He looked at it for a long time. When he turned back, there was a strange look around his eyes.
"What's the matter—?" I started.
Foster ignored me, waved to the proprietor, a short fat country man. He came over to the table, wiping his hands on his apron.
"A very interesting old building," Foster said. "We've been admiring it. When was it built?"
"Well, sir," the publican said, "This here house is a many a hundred year old. It were built by the monks, they say, from the monastery what used to stand nearby here. It were tore down by the King's men, Henry, that was, what time he drove the papists out."
"That would be Henry the Eighth, I suppose?"
"Aye, it would that. And this house is all that were spared, it being the brewing-house, as the king said were a worthwhile institution, and he laid on a tithe, that two kegs of stout was to be laid by for the king's use each brewing time."
"Very interesting," Foster said. "Is the custom still continued?"
The publican shook his head. "It were ended in my granfer's time, it being that the Queen were a teetotaller."
"How did it acquire the curious name—'The Ancient Sinner?'"