Renford asked for explanatory notes.
“You’re a bit of an ass at times, aren’t you?” said Milton, kindly. “What I meant was, is the tea ready? If it is, you can scoot. If it isn’t, buck up with it.”
A sound of bubbling and a rush of steam from the spout of the kettle proclaimed that the billy did boil. Renford extinguished the Etna, and left the room, while Milton, murmuring vague formulae about “one spoonful for each person and one for the pot”, got out of his chair with a groan—for the Town match had been an energetic one—and began to prepare tea.
“What I really came round about—” began Trevor.
“Half a second. I can’t find the milk.”
He went to the door, and shouted for Renford. On that overworked youth’s appearance, the following dialogue took place.
“Where’s the milk?”
“What milk?”
“My milk.”
“There isn’t any.” This in a tone not untinged with triumph, as if the speaker realised that here was a distinct score to him.