“The way I came to have ginger-beer in my pocket, was this. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with Hopkins, Sir, of the Queen’s Arms in the Poultry,” the drysalter shook his head; “it’s the house I frequent, and a very civil obliging sort of fellow he is--that is to say, was, two summers ago. The season was very sultry, and says I, Hopkins, I wonder you don’t keep ginger pop--it’s a pleasant refreshing beverage at this season, and particularly wholesome. Well, Hopkins was very thankful for the hint, for he likes to have everything that can be called for, and he was for sending off an order at once to the ginger-beer manufactory, but I persuaded him better. None of their wholesale trash, said I, but make your own. I’ll give you a recipe for it--the best ever bottled. But I couldn’t gain my point. Hopkins hum’d and haw’d, and thought nobody could make it but the makers. There was no setting him right, so at last I determined to put him to the proof. I’ll tell you what, Hopkins, said I, you don’t like the trouble, or I’d soon convince you that a man who isn’t a maker can make it as well as anyone--perhaps better. You shall have a sample of mine--I’ve got a few bottles at my counting-house, and it’s only a step. Of course, Hopkins was very much obliged, and off I went. In confidence between you and me, Sir,--though I never had the pleasure of seeing you before--I wanted to introduce ginger-beer at the Queen’s Arms as a public benefit.” “I am sure, Sir--I’m very much obliged,” stammered the drysalter, at a loss what to say. “Ginger-beer, I’ve no doubt, is very efficacious, and particularly after fruit or lobsters, for I observe you always see them at the same shops.”