"Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"
The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of clean water. He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and horrible danger. He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.
"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom. I shan't come 'ere no more."
The Microbe
"Wot's a microbe, Sam?" inquired Bill Gerridge, putting down his pipe, and looking up from the paper which he had been laboriously reading for the last quarter of an hour.
"A microbe!" repeated Sam doubtfully. "Why a sort o' hinsect—ain't it, Mr. Parbury?"
"Well, it ain't exactly a insect," answered Mr. Parbury with some deliberation. "More like a reptile, as yer might say. Somethin' arter the nature of a rat with wings."
"Kind o' bat?" put in Bill.
"You've got it," agreed Mr. Parbury. "Any'ow, they're dangerous beasts."