HUGH. [Gasping, but still reaching up and reading.] Uto—U-to-pi-an Tinned Sausage. Is it that?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in sixth egg with an air of finality and triumph, and lifting his hat from the counter.] Nay, nay, not that, Hughie lad. Why do ye not begin by askin' me what I want? Ye've no gift for sellin' groceries whatever.
HUGH. [Surprised.] Did I not ask ye?
DEACON ROBERTS. Nay.
HUGH. What would Neli say whatever? She would never forgive me.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Amiably.] Well, I forgive ye, Hughie lad. 'Tis a relish I'm needin'!
HUGH. [Relieved.] Well, indeed, a relish! We have relishes on that shelf above, I think. [Reaches up but pauses helplessly.] I must tell Neli that these shelves are not straight.
[Dizzy and clinging to the shelves, his back to the Deacon.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Picking up a pound of butter wrapped in print paper.] Is it up there?
HUGH. No, I think, an' the shelves are not fast whatever. I must tell Neli. They go up like wings. [Trying to reach to a bottle just above him.] Was it English or American?