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This was followed by the punch-making, where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were to be exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the supper at night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening grown quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and most unmeasured reprobation. "I say, Sparks, it's getting late.
The spatch-cock, old boy. Don't be slumbering." "By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup to-day! By Jove, I never felt so ill in my life!" "Na, na; it was na the soup. It was something he pit in the punch, that's burning me ever since I tuk it. Ou, man, but ye're an awfu' creture wi' vittals!" "He'll improve, Doctor; he'll improve. Don't discourage him; the boy's young.
Be alive now, there. Where's the toast? confound you, where's the toast?" "There, Sparks, you like a drumstick, I know. Mustn't muzzle the ox, eh? Scripture for you, old boy. Eat away; hang the expense. Hand him over the jug. Empty eh, Charley? Come, Sparkie, bear a hand; the liquor's out." "But won't you let me eat?" "Eat! Heavens, what a fellow for eating!
M'Gregor, palpably ill at ease, conducted her to an armchair. "You are very good," said the visitor, speaking with a certain hesitancy and with a slight accent most musical and fascinating. "I wait a while if I may." "Dear, dear," muttered Mrs. M'Gregor, beginning to poke the fire, "he has let the fire down, of course! Is it out? No ... I see a wee sparkie!"
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