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- Стр. 163/357
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’
What
do
people
like
to
drink
here
,
then
?
’
The
landlord
looked
sideways
at
his
customers
,
a
clever
trick
given
that
they
were
directly
in
front
of
him
.
’
Why
,
lordship
,
we
drink
scumble
,
for
preference
.
’
’
Scumble
?
’
said
Mort
,
failing
to
notice
the
muffled
sniggers
.
’
Aye
,
lordship
.
Made
from
apples
.
Well
,
mainly
apples
.
’
This
seemed
healthy
enough
to
Mort
.
’
Oh
,
right
,
’
he
said
.
’
A
pint
of
scumble
,
then
.
’
He
reached
into
his
pocket
and
withdrew
the
bag
of
gold
that
Death
had
given
him
.
It
was
still
quite
full
.
In
the
sudden
hush
of
the
inn
the
faint
clink
of
the
coins
sounded
like
the
legendary
Brass
Gongs
of
Leshp
,
which
can
be
heard
far
out
to
sea
on
stormy
nights
as
the
currents
stir
them
in
their
drowned
towers
three
hundred
fathoms
below
.
’
And
please
serve
these
gentlemen
with
whatever
they
want
,
’
he
added
.
He
was
so
overwhelmed
by
the
chorus
of
thanks
that
he
didn
’
t
take
much
notice
of
the
fact
that
his
new
friends
were
served
their
drink
in
tiny
,
thimble
-
sized
glasses
,
while
his
alone
turned
up
in
a
large
wooden
mug
.
A
lot
of
stories
are
told
about
scumble
,
and
how
it
is
made
out
on
the
damp
marshes
according
to
ancient
recipes
handed
down
rather
unsteadily
from
father
to
son
.
It
’
s
not
true
about
the
rats
,
or
the
snake
heads
,
or
the
lead
shot
.
The
one
about
the
dead
sheep
is
a
complete
fabrication
.
We
can
lay
to
rest
all
the
variations
of
the
one
about
the
trouser
button
.
But
the
one
about
not
letting
it
come
into
contact
with
metal
is
absolutely
true
,
because
when
the
landlord
flagrantly
shortchanged
Mort
and
plonked
the
small
heap
of
copper
in
a
puddle
of
the
stuff
it
immediately
began
to
froth
.
Mort
sniffed
his
drink
,
and
then
took
a
sip
.
It
tasted
something
like
apples
,
something
like
autumn
mornings
,
and
quite
a
lot
like
the
bottom
of
a
logpile
.
