Well, fust thing us knowed—no more'n a hour or two after—Mrs. Izod was a-sayin' to old Peter Ledbetter, as 'er set down a fresh pint for 'n, "That's the laast drop o' beer i' the 'ouse," 'er says.
"Whaat!" says Peter, though there warn't no call for 'im to voice the gen'ral sentiments, 'coz you see, Sir, 'e'd a-got the laast pint an' us 'adn't.
"There's a nice drop o' cider, though," says Mrs. Izod. "Leastways, when I says a nice drop, there's a matter o' fifteen gallons, I dessay," 'er says.
"I 'ave drunk cider at a pinch," says Bertie Mayo, cautious-like, "and my ould father, I d' mind, 'e'd used to drink it regular."
"Ah, that 'a did!—an' mine too, and 'is father afore 'un," says Tom Figgures; "but I reckon 'tisn't what 'twas in them days."
"Well, you may do as you'm a-minded 'bout 'avin' it," says Mrs. Izod; "but no more ain't beer what 'twas neether, come to that."
"You'm right there, Missus," says all the rest on us.
An' then Bertie Mayo, 'oo's allus a turr'ble far-seeing sort of chap, 'e says, "Reckon the trolley 'ull be along fust thing i' the marnin' from the brewery, Missus?" An' when Mrs. Izod 'er says as 'er didn't know, but 'twas to be 'oped as 'twud, a sort of a blight settled down on the lot on us, which I reckon is a pretty fair way o' puttin' it, for a blight allus goes 'and-in-'and wi' a drought.
Well, either us finished that evenin' up on cider or us finished the cider up that evenin'—there warn't much in it one way or t'other. An' next day—this bit as I'm a-tellin' you now us niver 'eard tell on till arterwards, but I'm a-tellin' it yeou just as it 'appened—next daay (that were Sat'rday, mind) there was a turr'ble to-do in the arternoon, for there warn't nobbut limonade in the house when them timber-haulin' chaps stopped to waater the engin'. Well, you may reckon!...
An' then, when us come 'ome from work, us found the door o' The Bell shut an' locked, an' "Sold Out" wrote on a piece o' cardboard i' the parlour winder by Reuben Izod's second child! Begad, that was sommut if yeou like! Us stud there a-gyaupin' an' a-gyaupin', till at last Peter Ledbetter give a kick at the door and 'ollers out, "Whatten a gammit do 'ee call this 'ere, Reuben Izod? 'Tis drink us waants, not tickets for the Cook'ry Demonstration." (Turr'ble sarcastic 'e do be sometimes, Peter Ledbetter).