e house until he came to a cellar door, which he
threw back and we followed him. When our eyes became accustomed to the
dim light we saw long rows of huge casks, mounted on frames so that the
spigots were eighteen inches from the floor. The air was deliciously
cool. It was permeated with the subtle odour of apple juice long
confined in wood. Films of cobwebs softened the sharp lines of the cask
heads and faintly gleamed between the rafters where the light struck
them.

"Here's cider that is cider!" declared Bishop, proudly tapping on the
heads of the great casks as he led the way into the darker recesses of
the cellar. "I reckon, Bob," he said to Harding, "that it's a long time
since you've had a chance to try a swig of real old Down East hard
cider."

"It's been a long time, Jim," admitted Harding. "How old is this?"

"I've put in a cask every year since I took the place," he replied, "and
that's more'n thirty years ago, and not a cask here but has cider in
it."

"Cider thirty years old!" exclaimed Chilvers. "You mean vinegar, don't
you?"

"I said cider, young man; an' when I say cider I mean cider," retorted
Bishop, rather indignantly. "It is no more vinegar than brandy's
vinegar, nor champagne's vinegar. Now, I don't reckon none of you,
barring my old friend John Harding, here, ever tasted a drop of real
hard cider. Oh, yes, Smith has, of course; but how about the rest of
ye?"

Carter, LaHume, Marshall, and Chilvers admitted that their idea of hard
cider was a beverage which had started to ferment.

Bishop placed his hand reverently on a blackened, time-charred cask. It
was evident he was as proud of that possession as others might be of an
authenticated Raphael.

"I don't tap this here very often," he said, "but in honour of this
occasion I'll let it run a bit. This here cider is fifty years old!"

He drew off a pint or so in a stone jug, and we went out into the light
to examine it. It was almost colourless, slightly amber in shade, if any
tint can describe it. I had seen that sacred cask when a boy, and I
recall now that Joe Bishop did not dare touch it, and there were few
things of which he was afraid.

We all solemnly sampled it from small glasses, which Bishop produced
from some mysterious hiding place.

"There is no taste to it," declared Chilvers. "It's smooth as oil, but
it has no flavour."

"Hasn't, eh?" smiled Bishop. "You just wait a minute and you'll get the
bouquet--as you wine experts