Alphonse Maria Mucha Monaco Monte Carlo

'What?' said Mort, blinking in the light.
'What he means is, what d'you want to drink?' said a small ferret-faced man sitting by the fire, who was giving Mort the kind of '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 to Mort. 'Oh, right,' he said. 'A pint of scumblelook a butcher gives a field full of lambs.'Um. I don't know,' said Mort. 'Do you sell stardrip?''Never heard of it, lordship.'Mort looked around at the faces watching him, illuminated by the firelight. They were the sort of people generally called the salt of the earth. In other words, they were hard, square and bad for preoccupied to notice.