The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of his trade.
“Ye’ll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower days syne,” opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille’s effort.
When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to say he’d give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined and fore-doomed Child of Sin, that—
Dam pocketed his hands and said but:—
“Havers, Mon Sandy!”
“I’ll tak’ the hide fra y’r bones yet, ye feckless, impident—”
Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:—
“Clavers, Mon Sandy!”
“I’ll see ye skelped onny-how—or lose ma job, ye—”
More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:—