Mr. Billson looked a trifle sheepish. Unnecessarily, in my opinion. Even heroes may legitimately quail before a mop wielded by an angry woman.
“She come out of a back room,” he said, with embarrassment. “Started makin’ a fuss when she saw what I’d done. So I come away. You can’t dot a woman,” argued Mr. Billson, chivalrously.
“Certainly not,” I agreed. “But what was the trouble?”
“I been doin’ good,” said Mr. Billson, virtuously.
“Doing good?”
“Spillin’ their beers.”
“Whose beers?”
“All of their beers. I went in and there was a lot of sinful fellers drinkin’ beers. So I spilled ’em. All of ’em. Walked round and spilled all of them beers, one after the other. Not ’arf surprised them pore sinners wasn’t,” said Mr. Billson, with what sounded to me not unlike a worldly chuckle.
“I can readily imagine it.”
“Huh?”