The canned t’marters appeared with the food at dinner, and during the meal more of Skelton came out. He had offered Satan vinous liquors, hoping, so Ratcliffe dimly suspected, to send him back a trouble to the Sarah Tyler and an object lesson on the keeping of disreputable company; but the wily Satan had no use for liquor. He was on the water wagon.
“I leave all them sorts of things to Jude,” said he, with a grin. He was referring to Jude’s boasted drunk at Havana, and Ratcliffe, who was placed opposite to the pair of them, across the table, saw Jude’s chin project. Why she should boast of a thing one moment and fire up at the mention of it at another was beyond him.
For a moment it seemed as if she were going to empty the dish of tomatoes over Satan, but she held herself in, all but her tongue.
“You’d have been doin’ better work on board here, mendin’ the gooseneck of that spare gaff, than wangling old canvas an’ rope out of that man,” said she. “We’re full up of old truck that’s no more use to us than Solomon’s aunt. It’s in the family, I suppose, seein’ what Granf’er was—”
“Oh, put a potato in your mouth!” said Satan.
“He used to peddle truck on the Canada border,” said she to Ratcliffe,—“hams—”
“Close up!” said Satan.
“—made out o’ birchwood, and wooden nutmegs—”
“That was Pap’s joke,” said Satan. “And another word out of you and I’ll turn you over me knee and take down your—”
“Then what do you want flingin’ old things in my face?” cried Jude, wabbling between anger and tears. “Some day I’ll take me hook, same as mother did.”