But, all at once, he startled me by springing to his feet, seizing his tumbler in his hand and emptying the contents down his gullet at two monstrous gulps.
"No, no!—ye thievin' deevil," he shouted, as he regained his breath, "ye canna do that twice wi' Donald Robertson."
I looked toward the opening in the partition. Donald's recent enemy,—the man whom I had been studying at the other end of the bar-room,—was shouldering himself into our company. Behind him, in a semi-circle, a dozen faces grinned in anticipation of some more fun at Donald's expense.
The big bully glared down at me as I sat.
"That there is uncommon good beer, young un," he growled, "and that there is most uncommon good bread and cheese."
I glanced at him with half-shut eyelids, then I broke off another piece of bread.
"Maybe you didn't 'ear me?" he shouted again, "I said that was uncommon good beer."
"I shall be better able to judge of that, my man, after I have tasted it," I replied.
"Not that beer, little boy,—you ain't going to taste that," he thundered, "because I 'appens to want it,—see! I 'appens to 'ave a most aggrawating thirst in my gargler."
A burst of laughter followed this ponderous attempt at humour.