“Whaur awa’, Johnnie?”
“Well, I promised to visit Mr. Pym, the painter.”
“Aye, I ken him fine; wi’ rod or gun there’s nane to equal him.”
They found Mr. Pym busied in his garden, who, perceiving his visitors, laid by his spade and hastened to make them welcome; the better to perform which, he brought them into the house and vanished to find the wherewithal to refresh them, only to return empty-handed and disconsolate:
“Sirs,” quoth he, “the devil is in it for my brandy is out!” And, being at a loss, he sought the aid of his daughter. “Elsie!” he called. “Elsie!”
A jingle of keys, a light step and Mistress Pym appeared, her dainty, print gown girt about slender middle by a cincture whence hung reticule and housewifely keys, her face framed in snowy mob-cap and remarkable for a pair of handsome eyes.
“Girl,” exclaimed the painter, “my brandy’s out!”
Mistress Pym faced the so grave situation entirely undismayed:
“I told you ’twas so, days agone, sir,” she answered serenely. “We’ve naught left in the house save my ginger wine.”