“I'll come in with you, in case you want help,” ses Sam. “I don't mind wot people think.”
Mr. Goodman tried to persuade 'im not to, but it was all no good, and at last 'e walked in and sat down on a tall stool that stood agin the bar, and put his hand to his 'ead.
“I s'pose we shall 'ave to 'ave something,” he ses in a whisper to Sam; “we can't expect to come in and sit down for nothing. What'll you take?”
Sam looked at 'im, but he might just as well ha' looked at a brass door-knob.
“I—I—I'll 'ave a small ginger-beer,” he ses at last, “a very small one.”
“One small ginger,” ses Mr. Goodman to the bar-maid, “and one special Scotch.”
Sam could 'ardly believe his ears, and he stood there 'oldin' his glass o' ginger-beer and watching Peter's teetotal uncle drink whiskey, and thought 'e must be dreaming.
“I dessay it seems very shocking to you,” ses Mr. Goodman, putting down 'is glass and dryin' 'is lips on each other, “but I find it useful for these attacks.”
“I—I s'pose the flavor's very nasty?” ses Sam, taking a sip at 'is ginger-beer.
“Not exactly wot you could call nasty,” ses Mr. Goodman, “though I dessay it would seem so to you. I don't suppose you could swallow it.”