He advanced to the bar, bowing to Mr. Caryll with an air almost apologetic, and to the landlady with an air scarcely less so, as he asked for a nipperkin of ale to wash the dust of the road from his throat. The hostess called a drawer to serve him, and departed herself upon the momentous business of Mr. Caryll's dinner.
“A warm day, sir,” said the chubby man.
Mr. Caryll agreed with him politely, and finished his glass, the other sipping meanwhile at his ale.
“A fine brew, sir,” said he. “A prodigious fine brew! With all respect, sir, your honor should try a whet of our English ale.”
Mr. Caryll, setting down his glass, looked languidly at the man. “Why do you exclude me, sir, from the nation of this beverage?” he inquired.
The chubby man's face expressed astonishment. “Ye're English, sir! Ecod! I had thought ye French!”
“It is an honor, sir, that you should have thought me anything.”
The other abased himself. “'Twas an unwarrantable presumption, Codso! which I hope your honor'll pardon.” Then he smiled again, his little eyes twinkling humorously. “An ye would try the ale, I dare swear your honor would forgive me. I know ale, ecod! I am a brewer myself. Green is my name, sir—Tom Green—your very obedient servant, sir.” And he drank as if pledging that same service he professed.
Mr. Caryll observed him calmly and a thought indifferently. “Ye're determined to honor me,” said he. “I am your debtor for your reflections upon whetting glasses; but ale, sir, is a beverage I don't affect, nor shall while there are vines in France.”
“Ah!” sighed Mr. Green rapturously. “'Tis a great country, France; is it not, sir?”