Ye see, Sir, there's just seven licensed 'ouses i' the village.
Disgraceful? Aye, so 'tis, begad!--on'y seven licensed 'ouses--an'
I do mind when 'twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin' is.
Howsomever, to-day there's seven, and some goes to one and some goes
to totherun.

Well, laast Friday night me an' Tom Figgures an' Bertie Mayo an' Peter
Ledbetter an' a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod's at The Bell,
we come in to 'ave our drink. And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us 'ad
a-bin mouldin'-up taters all day, so's to get _them_ finished afore
the hay; so us could do wi' a drop. Aye, aye!

Well, fust thing us knowed--no more'n a hour or two after--Mrs. Izod
was a-sayin' to old Peter Ledbetter, as 'er set down a fresh pint for
'n, "That's the laast drop o' beer i' the 'ouse," 'er says.

"_Whaat_!" says Peter, though there warn't no call for 'im to voice
the gen'ral sentiments, 'coz you see, Sir, 'e'd a-got the laast pint
an' us 'adn't.

"There's a nice drop o' cider, though," says Mrs. Izod. "Leastways,
when I says a nice drop, there's a matter o' fifteen gallons, I
dessay," 'er says.

"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."