"True, true!" I said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. "But you would only get a few shillings for it, I am afraid. Such things have no market value."
"No market value?" he answered. "Well, I suppose I dunnow much 't-al-'bout-et!"
He mused for a few moments. I narrowly watched him out of half-closed eyes—"Oh, yes; I was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough"—and said, very carelessly: "I should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather bottel.' They may look picturesque, but I am certain the beer would taste vile. I have no sympathy with the enthusiast who sang:
"'And I wish in heaven his soul may dwell
That first devised the leather bottel.'
However, I would not mind giving you a few shillings for it."
I happened to glance up as I said this. He sat there looking at me with a troubled expression in his blue eyes.
He then said a number of things in broad Dorset, and the "tellees" and "thickees" and "dallees" became unintelligible, but he meant that I could but be joking when I said "a few shillings."
"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind any more," I said. "We will let the matter drop."