I am not a judge of ale, but I can say with a clear conscience I prefer water.
While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what had become of the shoulders of the mutton.
"I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall," said my lady, humbly.
"They was, my lady," said Horrocks, "and precious little else we get there neither." Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation with Mr.Horrocks.

"That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breed must be uncommon fat now." "It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt," said the butler with the gravest air, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began to laugh violently.
"Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley," said Mr.Crawley, "your laughter strikes me as being exceedingly out of place." "Never mind, my lord," said the Baronet, "we'll try the porker on Saturday.

Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks.

Miss Sharp adores pork, don't you, Miss Sharp ?" And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner.
When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before Sir Pitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum.

Mr.Horrocks served myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and a bumper was poured out for my lady.