“Just the ‘raal Durham.’ ”
“The raal Durham! and what should I do wid it but make a blisther for Bill’s throat, as I towld ye before, and tell ye agin?”
“And yet here is the most of it in this cup, ready made for supper,” said I, as I took from the old cupboard the article, and held it before her.
“And was I to use it all at wunst for a blisther, d’ye think, ye mighty docthor M‘Lavy?” said she, with something of her usual greatness; “and isn’t his throat sore yet, and won’t he naid the rest ov it this very night?”
“Then what will become of this fine piece of salt beef?” said I, as I pulled out of the same recess the article which appeared so strange in a small hovel, with two chairs and a table, and scarcely a bit of furniture besides. “You must reserve a little for it?”
“And who gave ye the power to spake about my mate, and ask whether I ate musthard to it or not? Isn’t it me own?”
“That’s just what I want to know,” said I, as I took out my handkerchief to roll it up in.
“And who knows that better than the woman who bought it, and salted it, ay, and put saltpatre upon it, and hung it, and boiled it?”
“And told me that the mustard was for her son’s throat,” said I.
“Ay, and the thruth, too, every word ov it.”