I took whiskey in preference to the acrid stuff.
“Ay,” resumed the grand-aunt. “I canna go in peace till ’er’s settled—an’ ’er’s that tickle o’ choosin’. Th’ right sort ’asn’t th’ gumption ter ax’ er.”
She sniffed, and turned scornfully to her glass. George grinned and looked conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey it crackled in his throat. The sound annoyed the old lady.
“Tha’ might be scar’d at summat,” she said. “Tha’ niver ’ad six drops o’ spunk in thee.”
She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation, half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.
“I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life—not proper”—and she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.
Here Meg came along the passage.
“Come, gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed—come on.”
“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s—it’s not ivry night as we ’a’e cumpny.”
“No, let me take you to bed—I’m sure you must be ready.”