“Perhaps I might fancy one the same,” said I; for I felt inclined to play a little as the idea of the mustard began to tickle my brain and make me merry. “I might even fancy that one and offer a premium upon it.”
“What premium?” he said, perhaps not knowing very well what to say.
“Perhaps sixty days and ‘skeely’ without a drop of mustard.”
The word operated like a charm on my sooty epicure, but he didn’t seem to understand it any way, looking into my face inquisitively, and no doubt remembering the conversation about the blister without being able to connect the two things, for doubtless his mother had told him nothing of his sore throat and of the remedy.
“Come,” said I, “there are just two ways. You take me to the butcher’s shop or I take you to mine.”
Bill was too sensible a fellow not to see, even without the quickening of the blister, that it was all up with him, and so accordingly, carrying his leg of mutton, he accompanied me very quietly to the Office, where I deposited him and his burden. I now examined the leg with the view of endeavouring to ascertain whether it might be identified, for I was here in the position I was in that morning I had so much difficulty about my booty in the Cock and Trumpet. But I soon discovered what I thought might serve my purpose, and, telling the lieutenant to take care not to allow the leg to be handled, I took my way to the Fountain Close, where I found my proud lady of Ballynagh sitting at her ease, no doubt expecting her son in by and by, or at least before supper, which supper he would doubtless bring in himself, she providing the mustard.
“I’m just here again,” said I, as I opened the door and went in.
“Ay, always shoving in your nose where you’ve no more right to be than in heaven, where you’ll never have any right at all,” replied she. “What wid me now?”
“I just want to know, Mrs Riddel, what you did with the ounce of mustard you bought two nights ago at Mr M‘Dougal’s?”
“The musthard?” she exclaimed, at the top of her voice.