“Yas’m. Shall I get you an apple?”
Without waiting for an answer Minerva climbed a rail fence—not without difficulty—and picked up several red astrachans that lay just beyond it. Then she essayed to return, but this time she got caught when half way over and could not extricate herself.
“Mis. Vernon, I’m stuck. Somep’n caught my dress. Come an’ help me.”
“Oh! Dear! I can’t help you. I can’t leave this horse for a minute. There’s no telling what might happen. Isn’t this awful?”
“’Deed it is. Never did think much of that ould scut. What is an ould scut, Mis. Vernon?”
“Oh, it’s just a pet name. Irish people are very affectionate.”
“Never get my affections,” said Minerva, race prejudice cropping out even in her predicament.
All the while she was trying to free herself, and at last she tore herself loose, sacrificing a part of her skirt, and rolled over the fence, the apples scattering in front of her as if in a panic.
But once over she gathered them up and handed one to Ethel, who leaned back along the forehead of her animal sofa and gave herself up to the delights of eating.
“Would the ould scut like one too?” asked Minerva.