Poking his
forefinger through the hole, he enlarged it to some extent. "More
like a forty-four now," he said in a satisfied tone.
Margaret Slattery brought up the hot water and some fresh firewood
for his stove, in which the fire burned low.
"Would you be liking a drink of whiskey, Mr. Thane?" she inquired,
with a stealthy look over her shoulder. "You're all done up,--and
half-frozen, I guess."
"Whiskey?" he exclaimed. "There ain't no sitch animal," he lamented
dolefully.
"Miss Jennie's got some cooking brandy stuck away in the cellar,"
whispered Margaret. "We use it at Christmas time,--for the plum
pudding, you know. I guess it's the same thing as whiskey, ain't
it?"
"Well, hardly. Still, I think I could do with a nip of it, Maggie."
"I'll see what I can do," said Margaret, and departed.
She did not return, for the very good reason that Miss Jennie
apprehended her in the act of pouring something from a dark brown
bottle into a brand new fruit jar.
"What are you doing there, Maggie?" demanded Miss Dowd from the
foot of the cellar stairs.
Miss Slattery's back was toward her at the time. She was startled
into hunching it slightly, as if expecting the lash of a whip,--an
attitude of rigidity maintained during the brief period in which
her heart suspended action altogether.
"I'm--I'm getting some vinegar for Mr. Thane to gargle with, Miss
Jennie," she mumbled.
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