"Ice rotten from the springs and no sign till you're into
it." Turning to the woman by the stove, "How're you feeling, Blanche?"
"Tony," she responded, stretching her body lazily and redisposing her
feet; "though my legs ain't as limber as when we pulled out."
Looking to his host for consent, Cornell tilted the demijohn over his
arm and partly filled the four tin mugs and an empty jelly glass.
"Wot's the matter with a toddy?" the Virgin broke in; "or a punch?"
"Got any lime juice?" she demanded of Corliss.
"You 'ave? Jolly!" She directed her dark eyes towards Del. "'Ere,
you, cookie! Trot out your mixing-pan and sling the kettle for 'ot
water. Come on! All hands! Jake's treat, and I'll show you 'ow! Any
sugar, Mr. Corliss? And nutmeg? Cinnamon, then? O.K. It'll do.
Lively now, cookie!"
"Ain't she a peach?" Cornell confided to Vance, watching her with
mellow eyes as she stirred the steaming brew.
But the Virgin directed her attentions to the engineer. "Don't mind
'im, sir," she advised. "'E's more'n arf-gorn a'ready, a-'itting the
jug every blessed stop."
"Now, my dear--" Jake protested.
"Don't you my-dear me," she sniffed. "I don't like you."
"Why?"
"Cos . . ." She ladled the punch carefully into the mugs and
meditated. "Cos you chew tobacco. Cos you're whiskery. Wot I take to
is smooth-faced young chaps.
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