The guests didn’t seem to mind, even when Wally’s brother, Neville, leapt to the stage and bellowed out a bawdy version of ‘Run, Rabbit, Run.’ In fact, everyone took to the dance floor and cavorted around like spring lambs. Everyone except Rita Crumm, who stood in the corner with her nose pointed at the ceiling and a look on her face that suggested she’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk.

The rest of her faithful followers, the devoted and often misled members of the Housewives League, having dispensed with their duties of laying out the delightfully diverse banquet, kicked up their heels with reckless abandon.

Marge Gunther, who had obviously consumed more than her share of scrumpy, got so carried away she displayed a scandalous expanse of chubby leg, giving everyone a glimpse of her corset suspenders. The sight was apparently too enticing to ignore for Neville, who leapt from the stage to join her.

Earl quietly chuckled at Elizabeth’s side as he watched the antics of the revelers. “That scrumpy sure packs a punch. I can’t believe plain old apple cider could have twice the alcohol of American beer. No wonder our boys get plastered when they drink it.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Alfie tells me that some of them don’t realize it’s intoxicating until too late. He warns them all now. Apparently our cider is quite different from the cider you serve in America.”

“Just as well, or we’d have kids reeling all over the school yard.”

“In the fourteenth century, English children were baptized with cider. It was considered cleaner than water.”

Earl looked surprised. “It’s been around that long?”

“Much longer. Since before the Norman Conquest I believe. The English climate isn’t suitable for grapes, so cider became more popular than wine. Captain Cook carried it on his ship to prevent scurvy, and I understand that in the last century it was widely proclaimed as a cure for gout.”