"Look here, Boy," said Mac at supper, "I said I wouldn't eat off this plate again."
"Oh, dry up! One tin plate's like another tin plate."
"Are you reflecting on the washer-up, Mr. MacCann?" asked Potts.
"I'm saying what I've said before—that I've scratched my name on my plate, and I won't eat off this rusty, battered kettle-lid."
He held it up as if to shy it at the Boy. The young fellow turned with a flash in his eye and stood taut. Then in the pause he said quite low:
"Let her fly, MacCann."
But MacCann thought better of it. He threw the plate down on the table with a clatter. The Colonel jumped up and bent over the mush-pot at the fire, beside the Boy, whispering to him.
"Oh, all right."
When the Boy turned back to the table, with the smoking kettle, the cloud had gone from his face. MacCann had got up to hang a blanket over the door. While his back was turned the Boy brought a tin plate, still in good condition, set it down at Mac's place, planted a nail on end in the middle, and with three blows from a hammer fastened the plate firmly to the board.