“Did you see her at sundown?”
“Ay, my lass. ’Bout eight mile out.”
“But the cutter?”
“Well, what about the cutter?”
“Will it be safe?”
“Safe? Tchah! I know what I’m ’bout.”
That being so, Mrs Shackle made no remark, but went on cutting chunks of bread and butter for her son, to which the boy added pieces of cold salt pork, and then turned himself into a mill which went on slowly grinding up material for the making of a man, this raw material being duly manipulated by nature, and apportioned by her for the future making of the human mill.
“Now, Ram,” said his father, “ready?”
“Yes, father,” said the boy, after getting his mouth into talking trim.
“Lanthorns! Off with you.”