“I ’ave drunk cider at a pinch,” says Bertie Mayo, cautious-like, “and my ould father, I d’ mind, ’e’d used to drink it regular.”

“Ah, that ‘a did!—­an’ mine too, and ’is father afore ’un,” says Tom Figgures; “but I reckon ’tisn’t what ’twas in them days.”

“Well, you may do as you’m a-minded ’bout ‘avin’ it,” says Mrs. Izod; “but no more ain’t beer what ’twas neether, come to that.”

“You’m right there, Missus,” says all the rest on us.

An’ then Bertie Mayo, ’oo’s allus a turr’ble far-seeing sort of chap, ’e says, “Reckon the trolley ‘ull be along fust thing i’ the marnin’ from the brewery, Missus?” An’ when Mrs. Izod ’er says as ’er didn’t know, but ’twas to be ’oped as ’twud, a sort of a blight settled down on the lot on us, which I reckon is a pretty fair way o’ puttin’ it, for a blight allus goes ‘and-in-’and wi’ a drought.

Well, either us finished that evenin’ up on cider or us finished the cider up that evenin’—­there warn’t much in it one way or t’other.  An’ next day—­this bit as I’m a-tellin’ you now us niver ’eard tell on till arterwards, but I’m a-tellin’ it yeou just as it ’appened—­next daay (that were Sat’rday, mind) there was a turr’ble to-do in the arternoon, for there warn’t nobbut limonade in the house when them timber-haulin’ chaps stopped to waater the engin’.  Well, you may reckon!...

An’ then, when us come ‘ome from work, us found the door o’ The Bell shut an’ locked, an’ “Sold Out” wrote on a piece o’ cardboard i’ the parlour winder by Reuben Izod’s second child!  Begad, that was sommut if yeou like!  Us stud there a-gyaupin’ an’ a-gyaupin’, till at last Peter Ledbetter give a kick at the door and ’ollers out, “Whatten a gammit do ’ee call this ’ere, Reuben Izod?  ’Tis drink us waants, not tickets for the Cook’ry Demonstration.” (Turr’ble sarcastic ’e do be sometimes, Peter Ledbetter).

“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.