"Well, I'm damned," said he.
"I'll take another," said Paragot.
The landlord brought another tankard.
"How do you manage it?" he asked.
Paragot explained that he had learned the art in Germany. You open your throat to the good beer without moving the muscles whereby you swallow, and down it goes.
"Well, I'm jiggered," said mine host.
"Have you no pretty drinkers hereabouts?" asked my master, sipping the second quart.
"They lots of 'em comes here and gets fuddled, if that's what you mean."
Paragot waved an impatient hand. "To get fuddled on beer is not pretty drinking. Haven't you any hard-headed topers who are famous in the neighborhood? Men who can carry their liquor like gentlemen and whose souls expand as they get more and more filled with the alcohol of human kindness? If so, I should like to meet them."
"There isn't any as could toss off a quart like that."