himself to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table, plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle—still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard—filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch, a tap at the door called him away.
“Is it you, Sarah?”
“Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please sir?”
“No; I shall not be in to-night: I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed.” He returned.
“You have your household in proper order,” observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton-chops. “You are not under petticoat-government, like poor Sweeting; a man—whew!—how the fat spits!—it has burnt my hand—destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore—there’s a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy—you and I will have no grey mares in our stables when we marry.”
“I don’t know—I never think about it; if the grey mare is handsome and tractable, why not?”
“The chops are done: is the punch brewed?”
“There is a glassful: taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact.”
