“I say, farmer,” he said, as he tasted, “this is the right sort or the wrong sort, according to which side you are.”
“Only a little drop given me by a friend.”
“French friend, for any money,” said the master, drinking the glass. “Yes, that’s right Nantes. I thought so from the first, farmer, and I know now I was right.”
He went off again, and Shackle stood shaking his fist after him.
“And we’d got off so well,” he muttered. “I knew that rascal suspected us.”
“Say me, Blenheim,” retorted Mrs Shackle. “I’ve begged you hundreds of times not to meddle with the business, but you would, and I’m your wife and obliged to obey. Isn’t Ram a long time bringing home that cow?”
“Yes,” said Shackle drily. “Very.”