We soon cut into the mutton and the bread. Wrapping them in paper, I stowed the thick slices away in my pockets, leaving the rest of the loaf and meat on the shelves again.
“How I wish I could smuggle him in a bottle of beer!”
“And so you can, Johnny. Swear to old Bumford it is for your own drinking.”
“He would know better.”
“Wrap a sheet of music round the bottle, then. He could make nothing of that.”
Hunting out a bottle, we went down to the cellar. Tod stooped to fill it from the tap. I stood watching the process.
“I’ve caught you, Master Johnny, have I! What be you about there, letting the ale run, I’d like to know?”
The words were Molly’s. She had come down and found us out: suspecting something, I suppose, from seeing the cellar-door open. Tod rose up.
“I am drawing some beer to take out with me. Is it any business of yours? When it is, you may interfere.”