“Shouldn’t have come, then.”
“It’s very hard on a poor woman,” sighed Poll, sinking on a stone, and resting her hands on her knees, her basket creaking loudly. “All this way up and no fish.”
“No; be off.”
“Iss, Master Luke, I’ll go; but you’ve always been a kind friend to me, and I’m going to ask a favour, sir. I’m a lone woman, and at times I feel gashly ill, and I thought if you’d got a drop of wine or sperrits—”
“To encourage you in drinking.”
“Now listen to him, what hard things he can say, Master Leslie, when I’m asking for a little in a bottle to keep in the cupboard for medicine.”
“Go and beg at my brother’s,” snarled Uncle Luke.
“How can I, sir, with them in such trouble? Give me a drop, sir; ’bout a pint in the bottom of a bottle.”
“Hear her, Leslie? That’s modest. What would her ideas be of a fair quantity? There, you can go, Poll Perrow. You’ll get no spirits or wine from me.”
“Not much, sir, only a little.”