“Look here, sir, if you don’t stop that snivelling, I’ll stand you outside to let the tears freeze. I’m not going to have you turning on the rain here. Do you want to put my fire out?”
“Aw canna help it,” said Watty piteously. “Aw was thenking aboot my mither.”
“Thinking about your ‘mither,’ you great calf! Well, other people think about their ‘mithers,’ but they don’t go on blubbering when they’ve got some potatoes to wash. Hullo! Tut, tut, tut! They’ll have to go overboard. Here, take these from close by the stove. Those others are frozen.”
“She never meant me to come oop here in the cauld to be starved to death.”
“What?” cried the cook. “Eh? Oh, it’s you, Mr Steve. How are you, sir? Managed to get you a good breakfast this morning.”
“Yes, thank you. It was grand. What’s the matter with Watty Links?”
“Why, sir, he had a lot of biscuits and fried bacon an hour ago, and a quart of hot coffee to wash it all down, and now he says that his ‘mither’ never meant him to come up here to be starved.”
“I didn’t!” cried Watty angrily. “I never said a word aboot eatin’ and drinkin’. I said ‘starved wi’ the cauld.’”
“Hey, but you’re a poor, weak, sappy kind of a fellow,” cried the cook. “There’s precious little solid meat on you, I’m afraid. Going, Mr Steve, sir?”
“Yes, I must be off.”