Cleg went to the back of the door where there was a keg with a spigot. He brought his mistress a drink in a little tinnikin.
She seemed to have forgotten to be angry, and bent her brows upon him more pleasantly than she had yet done.
"I thocht that ye were a religious boy," she said.
Cleg stood back a little with Mackimmon's paper still in his hand.
"Pund wecht for besom shank is good religion," said the imperfect Christian but excellent message-boy.
"Gang and deliver that paper!" Mistress Roy commanded, again looking up.
"I want my breakfast," said Cleg, with an air of sullen determination.
His mistress looked at him a moment, still sitting with the tinnikin of undutied whisky in her hand, and occasionally taking a sip. Cleg eyed her level-fronted.
She gave in all at once.