“Yes, nice pudding,” said Dick, with his mouth full. “You’ve put a good lot of salt in it, Jessie.”
“Lot!” chuckled Hopper. “I had one bit that tasted as if Jessie had put in Lot’s wife as well—the whole pillar. But, never mind, my dear; that’s the best pudding I ever ate in my life. I could taste your fingers in the crust.”
The table being cleared, half a bottle of whiskey and the pipes were placed, with hot water, on the table by Jessie, whose eyes were always wandering nervously towards the door, as if expecting to see some one come in.
Hopper was the first to help himself to whiskey, which he did liberally, apparently not being able to judge the quantity on account of the foreshortening effect of the tumbler.
“That boy Fred been about here lately?” he said, taking his pipe from his mouth, and poking at the lump of sugar in his glass with a spoon, as if he were offended with it, or looked upon it as Fred’s head.
“Not for some days,” said Dick, puffing out a cloud of smoke, while he glanced at Jessie, whose forehead contracted, and she turned slightly away.
“Don’t have him here: he’s a bad one,” said Hopper. “I don’t like him. Look at his moustaches.”
“Ain’t here.”
“Hey? Ain’t here? Who said he was? Just look at his moustaches, stretching straight out on both sides, and worked into a point with wax.”
“Well, they ain’t pretty, certainly.”