Phil and May came forth at once, but the former would not remain to supper. He had to visit Mr Blurt, he said, and might perhaps sup with him. Pax would go with him.
“Well, my lads, please yourselves,” said Mr Flint,—wheeling the old woman to the table, on which smoked a plentiful supply of her favourite sausages.
“Let me take the cat off your lap, grannie,” said May.
“Let the cat be, lassie; it’s daein’ nae ill. Are the callants gaein’ oot?”
“Yes, grannie,” said Phil, “we have business to attend to.”
“Bizness!” exclaimed Mrs Flint. “Weel, weel, they lay heavy burdens on ’ee at that Post-Office. Night an’ day—night an’ day. They’ve maist killed my Solomon. They’ve muckle to answer for.”
In her indignation she clenched her fist and brought it down on her knee. Unfortunately the cat came between the fist and the knee. With its usual remonstrative mew it fled and found a place of rest and refuge in the coal-box.
“But it’s not to the Post-Office we’re goin’, grannie,” said Phil, laying his hand kindly on the old woman’s shoulder.
“What o’ that? what o’ that?” she exclaimed somewhat testily at being corrected, “has that onything to dae wi’ the argiment? If ye git yer feet wat, bairns, mind to chynge them—an’ whatever ye dae—”
She stopped suddenly. One glance at her placid old countenance sufficed to show that she had retired to the previous century, from which nothing now could recall her except sausages. The youths therefore went out.