The sun was very hot, for it was past noon an hour or two, when they came to a public-house, with a pump before it, and a trough. Clare grew very thirsty when he saw the pump, and imagined the rush of a thick sparkling curve from its spout. But its handle was locked with a chain, to keep men and women from having water instead of beer. He went with longing to the trough, but the water in it was so unclean that, thirsty as he was, he could not look on it even as a last resource. He walked into the house. [Illustration: CLARE AND ABDIEL AT THE LOCKED PUMP.] “Please, ma’am,” he said to the woman at the bar, “would you allow me to pump myself a little water to drink?” “You think I’ve got nothing to do but serve tramps with water!” she answered, throwing back her head till her nostrils were at right angles with the horizon. “I’m not a tramp, ma’am,” said Clare. “Show me your money, then, for a pot of beer, like other honest folk.” “I’m afraid I told you wrong, ma’am,” returned Clare. “I’m afraid I _am_ a tramp after all; only _I_’m looking for work, and most tramps ain’t, I fancy.” “They all _say_ they are,” answered the woman. “That’s your story, and that’s theirs!” “I’ve got elevenpence, ma’am; and could, I dare say, buy a pot of beer, though I don’t know the price of one; but I don’t see where I’m going to get any more money, and what we have must serve Abdiel and me till we do.” “What right have _you_ to a dog, when you ain’t fit to pay your penny for a half-pint o’ beer?” “Don’t be hard on the young ’un, mis’ess; he don’t look a bad sort!” said a man who stood by with a pewter pot in his hand. Clare wondered why he had his cord-trousers pulled up a few inches and tied under his knees with a string, which made little bags of them there. He had to think for a mile after they left the public-house before he discovered that it was to keep them from tightening on his knees when he stooped, and so incommoding him at his work. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m not a bad sort. I didn’t know it was any harm to ask for water. It ain’t begging, is it, sir?” “Not as I knows on,” replied the man. “Here, take the lot!” He offered Clare his nearly emptied pewter. “No, thank you, sir,” answered Clare. “I am thirsty--but not so thirsty as to take your drink from you. I can get on to the next pump. Perhaps that won’t be chained up like a bull!” “Here, mis’ess!” cried the man. “This is a mate as knows a neighbour when he sees him. I’ll stand him a half-pint. There’s yer money!” Without a word the woman flung the man’s penny in the till, and drew Clare a half-pint of porter. Clare took it eagerly, turned to the man, said, “I thank you, sir, and wish your good health,” and drained the pewter mug. He had never before tasted beer, or indeed any drink stronger than tea, and he did not like it. But he thanked his benefactor again, and went back to the trough.