“Thee knows, Will, I never allow scoring for beer. Ready money or no ale, is my motto.”
“And a good motto it is, Nat. Oh, I wish all my customers was like you; for if they was, I should have no fear of being marched off to Lunnun (London) to be whitewashed.” (A provincialism implying the passing the Bankruptcy Court.)
“There is no danger of me going up there, Will,” rejoined Nat. “’Cause why, no one will trust me.”
“Dunna thee say that, Nat; for thee knows very well that I’ll trust thee.”
“Trust or no trust, Will, here goes,” and putting the jug of foaming ale to his mouth he drank a good draught; and then smacking his lips, said, “Upon my word, this is the real ‘cwrw da.’ A quart of this is worth a gallon of the last brewing.”
“So it ought to be, Nat; for I put four bushels of best malt to this barrel in the corner.”
“There’s no mistake, Bill, about its strength; and between us, as old friends, my only fear is that I shall not be able to get my fair allowance of it.”
“Oh! of that you need not be afraid, Nat; ’cause why, I only give this beer to my constant and my very best customers, and—”
“Of which I am one, I s’pose you was going to say.”
“And if I had said so, Nat, I should ha’ spoken the literal truth.”