“Try some of this ’ere fowl, Mrs Brown, it’s remarkably tender, it is; just suited to the tender lips of—dear me, Mrs Brown, how improvin’ the mountain hair is to your complexion, if I may wenture to speak of improvin’ that w’ich is perfect already.”
“Get along, Hobbs!” said Mrs Brown, affecting to be displeased.
“My dear, I’m gettin’ along like a game chicken, perhaps I might say like Dan, who’s got the most uncommon happetite as I ever did see. He’s a fine fellow, Dan is, ain’t he, Mrs Brown?”
“Brute,” said Mrs Brown; “they’re all brutes.”
“Ah!” said Hobbs, shaking his head, “strong language, Mrs Brown. But, admitting that, (merely for the sake of argument, of course), you cannot deny that they are raither clever brutes.”
“I do deny it,” retorted Mrs Brown, taking a savage bite out of the leg of a chicken, as if it represented the whole Celtic race. “Don’t they talk the most arrant stuff?—specially that McAllister, who is forever speakin’ about things that he don’t understand, and that nobody else does!”
“Speak for yourself; ma’am,” said Hobbs, drawing himself up with as much dignity as was compatible with a sitting posture.
“I do speak for myself. Moreover, I speak for some whom I might name, and who ain’t verra far away.”
“If, ma’am, you mean that insinivation to apply—”
“I make no insinivations. Hand me that pot of jam—no, the unopened one.”