As soon as he was asleep, Mrs Slee began busily to prepare the humble dinner that was cooking, and spread the clean white table for her lord’s meal. A table-cloth was a luxury undreamed of, but on so white a table it did not seem necessary.
When all was ready, she went across the room and touched Sim, who opened his eyes and rose.
“That’s better,” he said. “I feel as tiff as a band now. Where’s the Rag Jack’s oil?”
Without a word, Mrs Slee went to a little cupboard and produced a dirty-looking bottle of the unpleasant-looking liquid, one which was looked upon in the district as an infallible cure for every kind of injury, from cuts and bruises down to chilblains, and the many ailments of the skin.
“How did you do that?” said Mrs Slee, sharply, as her husband held out a finger that was torn and evidently festering.
“Somebody was nation fast the other day, and pulled me off the foundry wall.”
“Where you’d got up to speak, eh?” said Mrs Slee.
“Where I’d got up to speak,” said Sim, holding his hand, while his wife dressed it with the balm composed by the celebrated Rag Jack, a dealer who went round from market to market, and then tied it up in a bit of clean linen.
“That’s better,” said Sim, taking his place at the table. “What is there to yeat?”
“There’d be nothing if it was left to you—but wind,” said his wife, sourly, as she took the lid off a boiler, hanging from the recking-hooks of the galley balk, and proceeded to take out some liquid with a tea-cup.