“But you’ll take some solids with it, Moulder? Why it stands to reason you’ll be famished.”
“Do as you’re bid, will you, and give me the whisky. Are you going to tell me when I’m to eat and when I’m to drink, like a child?” This he said in that tone of voice which made Mrs. Moulder know that he meant to be obeyed; and though she was sure that he would make himself drunk, she was compelled to minister to his desires. She got the whisky and hot water, the lemon and sugar, and set the things beside him; and then she retired to the sofa. John Kenneby the while sat perfectly silent looking on. Perhaps he was considering whether he would be able to emulate the domestic management of Dockwrath or of Moulder when he should have taken to himself Mrs. Smiley and the Kingsland brick-field.
“If you’ve a mind to help yourself, John, I suppose you’ll do it,” said Moulder.
“None for me just at present, thank’ee,” said Kenneby.
“I suppose you wouldn’t swallow nothing less than wine in them togs?” said the other, raising his glass to his lips. “Well, here’s better luck, and I’m blessed if it’s not wanting. I’m pretty well tired of this go, and so I mean to let ’em know pretty plainly.”
All this was understood by Mrs. Moulder, who knew that it only signified that her husband was half tipsy, and that in all probability he would be whole tipsy before long. There was no help for it. Were she to remonstrate with him in his present mood, he would very probably fling the bottle at her head. Indeed, remonstrances were never of avail with him. So she sat herself down, thinking how she would run down when she heard Mrs. Smiley’s step, and beg that lady to postpone her visit. Indeed it would be well to send John to convey her home again.
Moulder swallowed his glass of hot toddy fast, and then mixed another. His eyes were very bloodshot, and he sat staring at the fire. His hands were thrust into his pockets between the periods of his drinking, and he no longer spoke to anyone. “I’m ⸻ if I stand it,” he growled forth, addressing himself. “I’ve stood it a ⸻ deal too long.” And then he finished the second glass. There was a sort of understanding on the part of his wife that such interjections as these referred to Hubbles and Grease, and indicated a painfully advanced state of drink. There was one hope; the double heat, that of the fire and of the whisky, might make him sleep; and if so, he would be safe for two or three hours.
“I’m blessed if I do, and that’s all,” said Moulder, grasping the whisky-bottle for the third time. His wife sat behind him very anxious, but not daring to interfere. “It’s going over the table, M.,” she then said.
“D⸺ the table!” he answered; and then his head fell forward on his breast, and he was fast asleep with the bottle in his hand.
“Put your hand to it, John,” said Mrs. Moulder in a whisper. But John hesitated. The lion might rouse himself if his prey were touched.
“He’ll let it go easy if you put your hand to it. He’s safe enough now. There. If we could only get him back from the fire a little, or his face’ll be burnt off of him.”
“But you wouldn’t move him?”
“Well, yes; we’ll try. I’ve done it before, and he’s never stirred. Come here, just behind. The casters is good, I know. Laws! ain’t he heavy?” And then they slowly dragged him back. He grunted out some half-pronounced threat as they moved him; but he did not stir, and his wife knew that she was again mistress of the room for the next two hours. It was true that he snored horribly, but then she was used to that.
“You won’t let her come up, will you?” said John.
“Why not? She knows what men is as well I do. Smiley wasn’t that way often, I believe; but he was awful when he was. He wouldn’t sleep it off, quite innocent, like that; but would break everything about the place, and then cry like a child after it. Now Moulder’s got none of that about him. The worst of it is, how am I ever to get him into bed when he wakes?”
While the anticipation of this great trouble was still on her mind, the ring at the bell was heard, and John Kenneby went down to the outer door that he might pay to Mrs. Smiley the attention of waiting upon her upstairs. And upstairs she came, bristling with silk—the identical Irish tabinet, perhaps, which had never been turned—and conscious of the business which had brought her.
“What—Moulder’s asleep is he?” she said as she entered the room. “I suppose that’s as good as a pair of gloves, anyway.”
“He ain’t just very well,” said Mrs. Moulder, winking at her friend; “he’s tired after a long journey.”
“Oh‑h! ah‑h!” said Mrs. Smiley, looking down upon the sleeping beauty, and understanding everything at a glance. “It’s uncommon bad for him, you know, because he’s so given to flesh.”
“It’s as much fatigue as anything,” said the wife.
“Yes, I dare say;” and Mrs. Smiley shook her head. “If he fatigues himself so much as that often he’ll soon be off the hooks.”
Much was undoubtedly to be borne from two hundred a year in a brick-field, especially when that two hundred a year was coming so very near home; but there is an amount of impertinent familiarity which must be put down even in two hundred a year. “I’ve known worse cases than him, my dear; and that ended worse.”
“Oh, I dare say. But you’re mistook if you mean Smiley. It was ’sepilus as took him off, as everybody knows.”
“Well, my dear, I’m sure I’m not going to say anything against that. And now, John, do help her off with her
