“Ay, lass; awlus a muddle.”
“Will you take anything, Stephen?”
“I do hoombly thank thee for a good and trew lass thou hast awlus been to me; and I dunnot care if I do take a little soomut warm—wi’ a little sugar.”
The sobered man had still credit at the neighbouring tavern. In two seconds he appeared with a steaming glass of rum-and-water, scarcely stopping to sip it by the way.
“Can thou drink rum, Stephen?” asked Rachel, taking the tumbler from the hands of the sobered man for fear of accidents.
“I do hoombly and kindly thank thee, lass,” said poor Stephen; “I can drink anything.”
Rachel placed the goblet to his parched and quivering lips.
There was a moment of breathless silence. Mr. Bounderby rattled three-and-sixpence in his breeches pocket, and finding that his ostentation was unnoticed, kicked a little boy down the Old Hell Shaft. Mr. Gradgrind purchased a pennyworth of violets from a blue-eyed flower-girl, and true to his new and trusting creed, accepted two counterfeit farthings as change for a sovereign without looking at them. The Whelp glared fiercely at the rum-and-water, and barked.
Stephen drank it, every drop. Finished. Down to the dregs. No heel-taps.
“I do hoombly thank thee, Rachel, good and trew lass as thou hast been to me; but I do feel much better.”