“That’s good,” says he, blankly; “that’s very good. For Judy,” he added, “is fell into the habit o’ tipplin’ by day, an’ the ginger-ale is all runned out.”
I persevered on my way to the pantry.
“Dannie!” he called.
I turned.
“Is you quite sure, lad,” he asked, with an anxious rubbing of his stubble of gray beard, “that ’tisn’t ginger-ale?”
“I’m wanting a glass, sir,” I replied, testily. “I see but one on the table.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “A glass!”
I returned with the glass.
“Dannie,” says my uncle, feigning a relief he dared not entertain, “you was wantin’ a drop o’ water, wasn’t you?” He pushed the little brown jug towards me. “I ’lowed ’twas water,” says he, hopefully, “when you up an’ spoke about gettin’ a glass from the pantry.” He urged the jug in my direction. “Ay,” he repeated, 292 not hopefully now at all, but in a whisper more like despair, “I jus’ ’lowed ’twas a drop o’ water.”
The jug remained in its place.