“Seems to me,” said the latter, sharply, “you like it for all your talk.”
The other shook his head gently, and, leaning back, bestowed a covert wink upon the signboard. He then explained that it was the dream of his life to give up beer.
“You’re another Job Brown,” said the old man, irritably, “that’s wot you are; another Job Brown. I’ve seen your kind afore.”
He shifted farther along the seat, and, taking up his long clay pipe from the table, struck a match and smoked the few whiffs which remained. Then he heard the traveller order a pint of ale with gin in it and a paper of tobacco. His dull eyes glistened, but he made a feeble attempt to express surprise when these luxuries were placed before him.
“Wot I said just now about you being like Job Brown was only in joke like,” he said, anxiously, as he tasted the brew. “If Job ’ad been like you he’d ha’ been a better man.”
The philanthropist bowed. He also manifested a little curiosity concerning one to whom he had, for however short a time, suggested a resemblance.
“He was one o’ the ’ardest drinkers in these parts,” began the old man, slowly, filling his pipe.
The traveller thanked him.
“Wot I meant was”—said the old man, hastily—“that all the time ’e was drinking ’e was talking agin beer same as you was just now, and he used to try all sorts o’ ways and plans of becoming a teetotaler. He used to sit up ’ere of a night drinking ’is ’ardest and talking all the time of ways and means by which ’e could give it up. He used to talk about hisself as if ’e was somebody else ’e was trying to do good to.
The chaps about ’ere got sick of ’is talk. They was poor men mostly, same as they are now, and they could only drink a little ale now and then; an’ while they was doing of it they ’ad to sit and listen to Job Brown, who made lots o’ money dealing, drinking pint arter pint o’ gin and beer and calling it pison, an’ saying they was killing theirselves.