“Whisky!” said Kinsella blankly.
“Yes, whisky. Bring it in a tin can or anything else that comes handy.”
“Is it a tin can full of whisky? Sure, where could I get the like? Or for the matter of that where would I get a thimble full? Is it likely now that there’d be a tin can full of whisky on Inishbawn?”
Priscilla stamped her foot.
“You’ve got quarts,” she said, “and gallons.”
“Arrah, talk sense,” said Kinsella.
“Very well,” said Priscilla. “I don’t want to give you away, but rather than see Lord Torrington sink into his grave with rheumatic fever for want of a drop of whisky I’ll expose you publicly. Cousin Frank, come here.”
“Whist, Miss, whist! Sure if I had the whisky I’d give it to you.”
Lord Torrington, with Lady Isabel weeping beside him, was on his way up to the Kinsellas’ cottage. Frank was speaking earnestly to Mr. Pennefather, who seemed disinclined to follow his father-in-law. When he heard Priscilla calling to him he hobbled towards her.
“Cousin Frank,” she said, “here’s a man who grudges poor Lord Torrington a drop of whisky to save his life, although for weeks past he has been—what is it you do when you make whisky? I forget the word. It isn’t brew.”