“Look out, Mrs Mac!—Exciseman!”
“The devil he is!” whispered she.
“Ye-e-es!” whispered Harry.
“All right, Harry!” she whispered. “Never a word! I’ll take care of him, bless his soul.”
After a warm at the wide wood fire, a gulp of coffee and a bite or two at the bread and meat, the traveller, now thoroughly thawed, stretched himself and said:
“Ah, well, Mrs Mac, haven’t you got anything else to offer us?”
“And what more would you be wanting?” she snapped. “Isn’t the bread and meat good enough for you?”
“But—but—you know—” he suggested lamely.
“Know?—I know!—What do I know?” A pause, then, with startling suddenness, “Phwat d’y’ mean?”
“No offence, Mrs Mac—no offence; but haven’t you got something in the way of—of a drink to offer us?”