"I aren't got none," says Reuben from be'ind the door.
"Well, cider, then," says Bertie Mayo.
"Tall 'ee I aren't got narrun—beer, cider, nor limonade—nary a drop. 'Tiddn' no manner o' good for you chaps to stan' there. You'd best toddle along up to The Green Dragon an' see if Mas'r Holtom've got any."
Well, bein' as no one iver yet 'eard tell o' one publican tellin' ye to go furder a-fild and get sarved by another publican (savin' as 'twas a drunken man as 'e wanted to be shut on), us was struck so dazed-like as us went along the road wi' never a word. But us 'adn't got 'alfway theer afore us met Johnnie Tarplett, Jim Peyton, and a lot more on 'em all comin' along the road towards we.
"Where be gwain'?" says Johnnie Tarplett.
"Us be gwain' along to The Green Dragon to get a drop o' drink," says Tom Figgures.
"The Green Dragon's shut 'owever," says Johnnie Tarplett. "Us was a-gwain' along—"
"Aye, aye!" us sings out. "So's The Bell shut too!"
Well, then us all took and went along to The Reaper, an' that were shut, an' The Dovedale Arms (which is an oncomfortably superior sort of a 'ouse, dealin' in sperrits) was down to ginger-wine, an' The Crown and The Corner Cupboard an' The Ploughman's Rest was all crowded out an' gettin' down to the bottom o' the casks.
An' then, when us took an' thowt as 'twould be 'ay-makin' next week, an' dry weather all round, us stuud i' the road and spak our thowts out.