"I'll apologize for everything, if you'll only come indoors," I said, humbly.
"No! . . . Go away!"
"Can I . . . bring you anything hot to drink?" I asked.
He made no answer; but, full of hope, I hurried into the house again, lighted the gas stove, and heated up a pint of milk, which I poured into a large jug, adding a tablespoonful of Bovril to the steaming contents. With happy inspiration, I also half-filled a tumbler with neat whiskey. Surely such tokens of affectionate consideration would move him!
But no! For a moment or two he stood eying the jug and glass, which I had fearfully placed on the threshold of his retreat.
"The one's milk and Bovril, and the other's whiskey. . . ." I said encouragingly.
He advanced a few steps, hesitated, and then suddenly picked up the jug and flung its contents at me.
"You ungrateful old beast!" I cried, as the hot liquid struck my face.
"Get away, then!"
Stooping down, he seized the glass in his right hand, and I hurriedly backed to a safer distance.