“I’m sorry to disappoint Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, smiling, “but I really think we shall get dinner more comfortably here. We’ve no plates or knives; and, as Whipcord says, there would be a difficulty about the beer.”
I was outvoted, and had to give up my idea of a rustic meal in the open air.
It was not a very pleasant dinner. Masham, despite Hawkesbury’s protests, persisted in interlarding it with his offensive stories, and Whipcord, who was taking very decided measures to excite his spirits, chimed in with his horsey slang, not unmixed with profanity.
“How are you getting on, Batchelor?” said the former presently to me. “Don’t be afraid of that bottle, man, it’s only whisky!”
“Don’t you believe him; it’s gin,” laughed Whipcord.
“I thought you said it was brandy,” said Hawkesbury.
“There you are!” said Masham. “One says one thing, one another, and one another. Now I tell you what, Batchelor shall be umpire, and we’ll each put five shillings on it, eh? What do you say to that?”
“I’d rather not bet,” replied Hawkesbury, “but I’d like to know what Batchelor says it is.”
“I’ll go half-sovs. with you on it,” said Whipcord.
“Done with you!” said Masham; “but Hawkesbury must go too, for if it’s brandy we both lose.”