“Not before it’s set right,” he said, assured of his line of retreat.
“The Quarleses don’t make muddles. For a hundred year——”
“Oh, Jinny’s been all right the last hundred years,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the last few weeks I complain about! I hope it’s not sunstroke.”
“My Jinny!” The Gaffer’s anger died. “She went away singin’ as merry as could be, my little mavis,” he said anxiously.
“Then what do you make of that?” Elijah indicated the pot.
The old man unwrapped it slowly, and readjusting his spectacles spelt out the label. “Oliver’s Depil—Depil—” he stumbled on. “Is that pills?”
“No, it’s for the hair.”
“Well, that’s what you want, ain’t it?” he said naïvely.
Mr. Skindle coloured up. “But this is to take off the hair,” he explained.
“Well, you can’t do that,” chuckled Daniel, “bein’ more a ’Lisha than a ’Lijah.”