"Yes, uncle. You see—"
They were now in the back kitchen, or scullery, where a bright fire was burning in a small range and a great kettle of water singing over it.
"Run and get us a blanket, lad," said Si, stopping Herbert again, and turning up the gas.
"A blanket?"
"Ay, lad! A blanket. Art struck?"
When Herbert returned with the blanket Silas was spilling mustard out of the mustard tin into a large zinc receptacle which he had removed from the slop-stone to a convenient place on the floor in front of the fire. Silas then poured the boiling water from the kettle into the receptacle, and tested the temperature with his finger.
"Blazes!" he exclaimed, shaking his finger. "Fetch us the whisky, lad."
When Herbert returned a second time, Uncle Silas was sitting on a chair wearing merely the immense blanket, which fell gracefully in rich folds around him to the floor. From sundry escaping jets of steam Herbert was able to judge that the zinc bath lay concealed somewhere within the blanket. Si's clothes were piled on the deal table.
"I hanna' gotten my feet in yet," said Si. "They're resting on th' edge. But I'll get 'em in in a minute. Oh! Blazes! Here! Mix us a glass o' that, hot. And then get out that clothes-horse and hang my duds on it nigh th' fire."
Herbert obeyed, as if in a dream.