His very voice was raw and husky with a
tang of the sea in it. Dollops's nasal twang took up the story, while the
barmaid--a red-headed, fat woman with a coarse, hard face, who was
continually smiling--looked them up and down, and having taken stock of
them set two pewter tankards of frothing ale before them, took the money
from Cleek, bit it, and then with a nod dropped it into the till and came
back for a chat.
"Strangers, ain't you?" she said, pleasantly, leaning on the bar and
grinning at them.
"Yus." Cleek's voice was sharp, emphatic.
"Thought so. Sea-faring, I take it?"
"Yus," said Cleek again, and gulped down the rest of his ale, pushing the
tankard toward her and nodding at it significantly.
She sniffed, and then laughed.
"Want another, eh? Ain't wastin' many words, are yer, matey? 'Oo's the
little 'un?"
"Meaning me?" said Dollops, bridling. "None of yer blarney 'ere, miss! Me
an' my mate's been on a walkin' tooer--come up from Lunnon, we 'ave."
"You never did!"
Admiration mingled with disbelief in the barmaid's voice.
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