cannot do
better than women."

"I know it," said Martin Pippin, "but it would be unkind to let on."

"Then we'll wash our hands of em. But don't go, boy," said Old
Gillman. "Talking of Sloe Gin--"

Martin sat down again.

They talked of Sloe Gin for a very long time. They did not agree about
it. They got out some bottles to see if they could not manage to agree.
Martin thought one bottle hadn't enough sugar-candy in it, so they put
in some more; and Old Gillman thought another bottle hadn't enough gin
in it, so they also put in some more. But they couldn't get it right,
though they tried and tried. Old Gillman thought it should be filtered
drop by drop seventy times through seven hundred sheets of
blotting-paper, but Martin thought seven hundred times through seventy
sheets was better; and Martin thought it should then be kept for seven
thousand years, but Old Gillman thought seven years sufficient. But
neither of these points had ever been really proved, and was not that
day.

After this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the
subject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities
of lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved
by the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how
many; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it
left. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as
inadequate as the most confirmed theory.

So after a bit Old Gillman said, "This is child's play, boy. After all,
there's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup,
and I'll sing along o' ye."

"Right," said Martin, "if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing
over."

"What cup's that, boy?"

"What but a kingcup?" said Martin.

"A king once drank from this," said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as
golden as ale. "He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across
the road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up."

"After me, then," said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them,
and the song too.

Martin: What shall we drink of when we sup?

Gillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup?

Martin: What's the drink?

Gillman: What d'ye think?

Martin: Farmer, say! Water?

Gillman: Nay!

Martin: Wine?

Gillman: Aye!

Martin: Red wine?

Gillman: Fie!

Martin: White wine?

Gillman: No!

Martin: Yellow wine?

Gillman: Oh!

Martin: What in fine, What wine then?

Gillman: T