eaten nothing since early morning, Maskull went downstairs to forage,
but without much hope of finding anything in the shape of food. In a
safe in the kitchen he discovered a bag of mouldy oatmeal, which was
untouchable, a quantity of quite good tea in an airtight caddy, and
an unopened can of ox tongue. Best of all, in the dining-room
cupboard he came across an uncorked bottle of first-class Scotch
whisky. He at once made preparations for a scratch meal.

A pump in the yard ran clear after a good deal of hard working at it,
and he washed out and filled the antique kettle. For firewood, one
of the kitchen chairs was broken up with a chopper. The light, dusty
wood made a good blaze in the grate, the kettle was boiled, and cups
were procured and washed. Ten minutes later the friends were dining
in the library.

Nightspore ate and drank little, but Maskull sat down with good
appetite. There being no milk, whisky took the place of it; the
nearly black tea was mixed with an equal quantity of the spirit. Of
this concoction Maskull drank cup after cup, and long after the
tongue had disappeared he was still imbibing.

Nightspore looked at him queerly. "Do you intend to finish the
bottle before Krag comes?"

"Krag won't want any, and one must do something. I feel restless."

"Let us take a look at the country."

The cup, which was on its way to Maskull's lips, remained poised in
the air. "Have you anything in view, Nightspore?"