“All right. You go on to Tavvy. Stop a moment. Go back and get a flask, and ask Grant to fill it with whisky. Tavvy will want a drop to christen the first fish.”
“She’s got it,” said Scoodrach, holding up a flask by its strap.
“Did he give you plenty?”
“She asked him, and Master Crant said he wouldn’t give me a trop, and sent me away.”
“But, I say—”
“Ta pottle’s quite full,” said Scood, grinning. “Master Crant sent her away, so she went rount to the window, and got in, and filled it at the sideboard.”
“I say, Scood, you mustn’t do that!” cried Kenneth sharply.
“Why not? She titn’t want the whusky, but the young master tit. Who shall Master Crant be, she should like to know!”
“Well, never mind now, only don’t do it again. It’s like stealing, Scood.”
“Like what?” cried the lad, firing up. “How could she steal the whusky when she ton’t trink it hersel? She wanted her master’s whusky for the young master. You talk creat nonsense.”