“Well, sir, we’d almost given up on you, that we had!” Ives greeted him from the bar. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Ah, a, er, pint of whatever you serve here,” Arthur said resolutely. He didn’t often drink beer, preferring a nice glass of wine, but he didn’t like to think what awful stuff they might have in a place like this. He had a dark suspicion it would turn out to have been uncorked half a year before in honour of the last representative of civilization to visit the hostelry and left to turn to vinegar ever since.
“Good choice, sir. Pint of Green Knight it is then.” Ives’ arm flexed as he drew the beer.
“Builds firm muscles, pulling pints,” a voice observed in Arthur’s ear.
“I, ah, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Arthur babbled, discovering to his discomfort that Bob Goodman was standing so
