“Thith beer,” said Igor, on her right, “tastes of horthe pith.” Polly stood back. Even in a bar like this, that was killing talk. “Oh, you’d know, would you?” said the barman, looming over the boy. “Drunk horse piss, have you?” “Yeth,” said Igor. The barman stuck a fist in front of Igor’s face. “Now you listen to me, you lisping little—”
