“Ah! we wanted a hare,” said Mrs Portlock, busying herself over the work her niece had left undone.
“There you are, then,” said the Churchwarden, drawing them, one at a time, from the inner pockets of his shooting-coat.
“But is that gun loaded, Joseph?” cried Mrs Portlock, who had been to the dresser and started away.
“Yes, both barrels,” said the Churchwarden, with a comical look at the visitor. “I wouldn’t touch her if I were you.”
“I touch the horrid thing?” cried Mrs Portlock. “There, for goodness’ sake unload it, Joseph, before we have some accident.”
“All right,” said the Churchwarden, tossing the hares out into the stone passage at the back, and taking up the gun just as Mrs Portlock had raised the great white basin of well-beaten egg to pour into a flour crater which she had prepared. Stepping to the window, the head of the house turned the fastening quietly, and opened the casement sufficiently wide to allow of the protrusion of the barrels of the gun, when—
Banff! Banff!
Crash!
All in rapid succession, for the double report so startled the good housewife that she let the great white basin slip through her fingers to be shattered to atoms on the red-brick floor, and spread its golden treasure far and wide.
“Joseph!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock.