“They never make it abroad, except in Switzerland, and there, too, badly.”
Still Skeff was silent.
“Have you got a sandwich with you?”
“There is something eatable in that basket,—I don't know what,” said Skeff, pointing to a little neatly corded hamper. “But I thought you had just finished supper when I drove up.”
“You 're a Londoner, I take it,” said M'Caskey.
“Why so, sir? for what reason do you suppose so?”
“The man who reminds another of the small necessity there is to press him to take something—be it meat or drink—must be a Cockney.”
“I am neither a Cockney, nor accustomed to listen to impertinence.”
“Hand me your flask and I 'll give you my opinion of it, and that will be better than this digression.”
The impudence seemed superhuman, and in this way overcame all power of resistance; and Skeffy actually sat there looking on while M'Caskey cut the cords of the little provision-basket, and arranged the contents on the front seat of the carriage, assuring him, as he ate, that he “had tasted worse.”