He was a beef of a man, broad as a London bus with a jutting jaw. He eyed the tourists perched at the hightop across the pub. “What you think they be on about?”
“Americans.” The bartender shrugged. “Jollificeartions is me guess.”
The man nodded, brow asquiggle. “Putting on parts is me guess.”
“Aye, could be.” Both men turned to eye the three ladies.
“I got this,” the big man said at least. He lumbered toward them.
At the ladies’ table, his ale sloshed in the glass. “Ar yer orrite bor?”
The blonde’s mouth dropped open. The redhead turned to the brunette, whispering, “What did he say?”
The brunette squared her shoulders and shot him a bold look. “You want to shoot the breeze, fella?”
“Oy,” he said. He took a step back, then pivoted for the bar.
“Wha’d they say?”
“Cor blast me, brother. Was a loada ole squit!”
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