"Why, it's Co-Cottrill!" he hiccupped. "Good old Cottrill! How-how's sheep-killing going on, Cottrill? All-all dead yet?"
"Not all, Master Harold," Cottrill answered stiffly, as he approached the bar. "Two pints, tankards, Mr. Querrett. I've got a friend from Sussex come to see us. George, this is Mr. Querrett, an' if you can find better beer between here an' Sussex—well, you're clever. Why, hullo, Harry! How goes it, Ben? Taters all clamped yet?"
"Aye, an' a rare crop, too," Ben, a grey-headed ancient, responded.
"They hain't begun clampin' of 'em yet, down in Sussex," Gees put in, addressing himself to both Cottrill and the ancient.
"You jest coom from theer, then?" Ben inquired friendlily.
"Aye," he answered. "Come up through the sheers."
"Through what, mister?" The ancient put a
