Luke duly drew his chair to the table, but instead of folding his hands and bending his head after the manner of his comrade, stared at Miss Whiteside with a sarcastic smile. Jinny eyed him sharply, dumped a portion of bacon and potatoes on a plate, and remarking with some asperity—
“Christians get sarved first in this cote,” handed it to John. Then, turning abruptly to Luke, and keeping her big spoon poised in the air, she added: “Mayhap yo’ didn’t know sayin’ grace at meal-times is one o’ my rules.”
“Naw, I didn’t,” admitted Kershaw, still grinning.
“Well, yo’ know now, then,” resumed Jinny, “an’ don’t yo’ be for forgettin’ it.”
She helped him to his allotted portion, but, as Luke jealously imagined, curtailed his allowance of bacon fat, though she had generously spooned a large quantity of it into John’s plate.
He made no remark, however, and fell to with appetite, remarking after a pause, that the folks at the public hadn’t sent up his little beer-barrel yet.
“Thot’s another thing,” said his landlady, raising her eyes from her plate. “I ought haply to ha’ named it this morn, for ye’ll ha’ the trouble o’ takin’ back that order now. I don’t allow nobry to sup beer i’ this place.”
“Eh! my word!” cried Luke, supplementing the ejaculation with an oath. “Yo’ want it all yo’r own way i’ this cote, I reckon.”
“I don’t allow no ill language neither,” observed Jinny. “If yo’ can’t get along wi’out usin’ bad words yo’ needn’t be at the trouble of unpackin’ that box o’ yo’rn.”
“Theer, don’t get vexed,” put in John, in a stage whisper to his fellow workman. “Humour her a bit, mon. Yo’ll not rue it at arter, an’ so I tell yo’. A mon met search far an’ wide afore he found hisself so weel done-to as we find ourselves here.”