Who was James—was her husband not Charley?—Will was wondering dreamily.
“Chapter two, warse two—Oi take your p’int,” answered this odd figure, whose wizened face with the straggling whiskers seemed loathsomely familiar. But though the beady eyes under the moleskin cap were turned for a moment full on his, remembrance stirred but feebly through his after-dinner lethargy, and it was not till the intruder had sinuously and softly skirted the great dining-table and begun solemnly turning the faces of the hunting pictures to the wall, like naughty schoolchildren, that he was dully conscious of the secret of his abhorrence. There—on the very first day of his return—was Joshua Mawhood, the button-snipping villain of his story!
Mother Gander stood by silent, as one properly censured. Neither did she protest when, slashing a giant gobbet off the beef, he carried it on the point of the carving-knife to Will’s mustard-strewn meat-plate, and bearing the same with its dirty knife and fork to the remotest corner of the table, fell to with audible enjoyment.
“I’ll send you your milk, Deacon,” she said, turning to leave the room.
“Don’t copy Jael too far,” he answered, with a grimace.
“Copy who?” asked Mother Gander, mystified.
“Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite—her as killed Sisera. Like me he asked for water, and, like you, she gave him milk. But she meant to nail him like a stoat.”
“Me murder you!” said Mother Gander with a scandalized air. But she was clearly impressed by his erudition.
“ ’Tis onny my fun. But you look up Judges, chapter fower. They’re beacons to us—they old Hebrews and Hebrewesses—beacons.”
“Would you rather not have the milk?” Mother Gander was still a little puzzled.