“It’s gone—all gone, by goles!” cried Thickset, with a bewildered look at Quickset, as if doubtful whether he ought not to have said it was not gone.
“You don’t mean to say the honey-pots!” said Quickset, with some alarm, and letting go the bridle of Old Ball, who very quietly led old Dumpling back again into the stable; “you don’t mean to say the honey-pots?”
“I don’t mean to say the honey-pots,” said Thickset, literally following the instructions he had received.
“What made you screech out then?” said Quickset, appealing to Thickset.
“What made me screech out, then?” said Thickset, appealing to Quickset, and determined to say as he said.
“The fellow’s drunk,” said the landlord; “the ale’s got into his head.”
“Ale,—what ale has he had?” enquired Quickset rather anxiously.
“Ale,—what ale have I had?” echoed Thickset, looking sober with all his might.
“He’s not drunk,” shouted Quickset; “there’s something the matter.”