"Run and get us a blanket, lad," said Si, stopping Herbert again, and
turning up the gas.
"A blanket?"
"Ay, lad! A blanket. Art struck?"
When Herbert returned with the blanket Silas was spilling mustard out of
the mustard tin into a large zinc receptacle which he had removed from
the slop-stone to a convenient place on the floor in front of the fire.
Silas then poured the boiling water from the kettle into the receptacle,
and tested the temperature with his finger.
"Blazes!" he exclaimed, shaking his finger. "Fetch us the whisky, lad."
When Herbert returned a second time, Uncle Silas was sitting on a chair
wearing merely the immense blanket, which fell gracefully in rich folds
around him to the floor. From sundry escaping jets of steam Herbert was
able to judge that the zinc bath lay concealed somewhere within the
blanket. Si's clothes were piled on the deal table.
"I hanna' gotten my feet in yet," said Si. "They're resting on th' edge.
But I'll get 'em in in a minute. Oh! Blazes! Here! Mix us a glass o'
that, hot. And then get out that clothes-horse and hang my duds on it
nigh th' fire."
Herbert obeyed, as if in a dream.
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