“Did you send Methusalem away?” she cried impatiently.
He put a scooped hand to his ear. “What be you a-sayin’?”
“Open the door!” she called angrily. “You mustn’t shut me out.”
“We’ve got to be careful, Jinny.” He moved to the door. “There’s a sight o’ bad charriters about.”
“Yes, indeed. What did Mr. Skindle want here?” she asked, as the bolts shot back.
“Skindle!” He pondered. “Young ’Lijah, d’ye mean? He brought me a pot.”
“That was long ago—what did he want this morning?”
“This marnin’? Oh, ay”—the sidelong look returned with remembrance and was succeeded by one of defiance—“That’s my business.”
A terrible suspicion flashed upon Jinny.
“You haven’t sold Methusalem?” she cried.