“Oh, father!”
“Come, Polly, don’t be hard on a man. That was only the club feast.”
“I haven’t patience with such feasts,” said Polly sharply. “I never go to feasts, and come back—”
“Poorly, my lass, poorly,” said Bob hastily.
“Yes, very poorly,” said Polly sarcastically, “and say, ‘My head’s fit to split,’ next day. Seems to me that’s all such heads are fit for then—to split and burn.”
“Nay, nay, my lass, they burn quite enough, I can tell ’ee. Man does do stoopid things sometimes.”
Bob was very apologetic about sitting down to tea, with me there. Then of course I apologised, and sat watching him drinking great draughts out of a basin and devouring huge slices of bread and butter.
“Rare stuff kettle broth, sir,” he said. “Don’t give you no headaches; do it, Polly?”
“No, father.”
“She don’t make it strong enough for that, Mr Burr, sir,” he continued, giving me a wink.