DOI Artikel:
Dowie, Ménie Muriel: My Note-Book in the Weald
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0057
By Menie Muriel Dowie 53
the toll had come into the bar, had their beer (carefully paying
for it), and formed up among the crowd near the blacksmith’s to
listen to the band. Outlying labourers who had left their work
began to slouch up with that peculiar report which corduroys
will make when the spare material flaps together in walking, the
grocer’s and baker’s carts began to come in from their rounds, and
the men hurried their tired horses into the stables, with a shake
of hay and no wisp down, the sooner to join the crowd.
All this while “ the new march,” with an afflicting element of
discord from the oboe, blared tunelessly below the sign. A cart
had appeared mysteriously, the brewer, passing his mottled hand
through his shock of beard and hair (all the colour of “ four-ale ”),
was loading up certain barrels, with the assistance of Frank ;
then it dawned upon me what “ four eighteens ” might mean ;
four times eighteen gallons ! . . . The third of my abstruse
calculations brought this out at seventy-two gallons ; seventy-two
gallons of free beer up on the cricket-ground !
While the band sought among its leaflets for a light waltz,
which all the village whistled carelessly in advance, and a boy
tucked two black bottles labelled “ Scottish Nectar ” securely into
his armpits, I observed a short colloquy to take place between
George and the flute, who was old and bearded and of a neutral
temper ; it resulted in blacker scowls than ever from the oboe,
and the bitter tapping of his finger upon a band-part. When,
finally, they all formed into line in front of Mr. Brewer Quarpitt,
the cart, and the four eighteens, for an adjournment to the cricket-
ground, I saw the oboe step moodily into the bar. He had
refused to play any more—musical people are notably touchy—
owing to some quarrel between him and the drum : he had blown
steadily through the Wedding March first of all—which the drum
had reserved to take them up the village to the cricket-field.
Nobody
the toll had come into the bar, had their beer (carefully paying
for it), and formed up among the crowd near the blacksmith’s to
listen to the band. Outlying labourers who had left their work
began to slouch up with that peculiar report which corduroys
will make when the spare material flaps together in walking, the
grocer’s and baker’s carts began to come in from their rounds, and
the men hurried their tired horses into the stables, with a shake
of hay and no wisp down, the sooner to join the crowd.
All this while “ the new march,” with an afflicting element of
discord from the oboe, blared tunelessly below the sign. A cart
had appeared mysteriously, the brewer, passing his mottled hand
through his shock of beard and hair (all the colour of “ four-ale ”),
was loading up certain barrels, with the assistance of Frank ;
then it dawned upon me what “ four eighteens ” might mean ;
four times eighteen gallons ! . . . The third of my abstruse
calculations brought this out at seventy-two gallons ; seventy-two
gallons of free beer up on the cricket-ground !
While the band sought among its leaflets for a light waltz,
which all the village whistled carelessly in advance, and a boy
tucked two black bottles labelled “ Scottish Nectar ” securely into
his armpits, I observed a short colloquy to take place between
George and the flute, who was old and bearded and of a neutral
temper ; it resulted in blacker scowls than ever from the oboe,
and the bitter tapping of his finger upon a band-part. When,
finally, they all formed into line in front of Mr. Brewer Quarpitt,
the cart, and the four eighteens, for an adjournment to the cricket-
ground, I saw the oboe step moodily into the bar. He had
refused to play any more—musical people are notably touchy—
owing to some quarrel between him and the drum : he had blown
steadily through the Wedding March first of all—which the drum
had reserved to take them up the village to the cricket-field.
Nobody