Johnny Walker. That’s the best of courting at the Ram Inn. I’ll go and get ready.”
In the kitchen Emily sat grinding out some stitching from a big old hand-machine that stood on the table before her: she was making shirts, for Sam, I presumed. That little fellow, who was installed at the farm, was seated by her side firing off words from a reading book. The machine rumbled and rattled on, like a whole factory at work, for an inch or two, during which time Sam shouted in shrill explosions like irregular pistol shots: “Do—not—pot——” “Put!” cried Emily from the machine; “put——” shrilled the child, “the soot—on—my—boot,”—there the machine broke down, and, frightened by the sound of his own voice, the boy stopped in bewilderment and looked round.
“Go on!” said Emily, as she poked in the teeth of the old machine with the scissors, then pulled and prodded again. He began “—boot,—but—you——” here he died off again, made nervous by the sound of his voice in the stillness. Emily sucked a piece of cotton and pushed it through the needle.
“Now go on,” she said, “—‘but you may’.”
“But—you—may—shoot”:—he shouted away, reassured by the rumble of the machine: “Shoots—the—fox. I—I—It—is—at—the—rot——”
“Root,” shrieked Emily, as she guided the stuff through the doddering jaws of the machine.
“Root,” echoed the boy, and he went off with these crackers: “Root—of—the—tree.”
“Next one!” cried Emily.
“Put—the—ol——” began the boy.
“What?” cried Emily.
