“Slut, you lie,” he said, as clearly as he could. “That’s”—he pointed to Nan—“an old hag—but Nan Swayle—no, Nan Swayle was a shweet lash—a shweet milk lash—an’,” he went on very seriously, “a very pretty lash.”
He leaned over the side and had one more look at Nan, who stood beneath him, her arms outstretched and her bright eyes brighter than usual.
“No,” he said. “No, no, nosh—that ish not a bit like Nan Swayle. Nan Swayle is a pretty lash, a shweet, pretty lash.”
Pet rocked herself to and fro in a paroxysm of laughter.
Ben stood looking at Nan.
“Go away, hag,” he said, “find Nan Swayle and send her to me and I’ll go with her, but yoush not Nan Swayle, or, anywaysh,” he went on, “not Nan Swayle I knowsh, you ugly old hagsh.”
And he began to laugh. “That’s not Nan Shwayle,” he giggled, poking Pet’s fat side with his fingers.
Pet rolled over on the gunwale in a fit of laughter.
“No, ducky,” she roared, “that’s not Nan Swayle. That’s a witch telling us she’s her.”
“Ah! she couldn’t cheat me!” Ben chuckled. “I knowsh Nan Shwayle, a pretty lash.”