“I know, I know,” said Tom, in a hurried manner, which strongly indicated some other motive for regret than that which arose from mere disappointment at not being a partner in their journey, and from which Sparkle did not fail to draw an inference, that some roguish eyes had been darting their beams into the bosom of his friend.
“I see how it is now,” cried Sparkle, “Tom is not cut but caught, and I'll sport a fifty, that the Evergreen Tom Dashall, of London, will be transplanted to entwine with some virgin blossom of the country, before another twelve months.”
Tom was silent.
Tallyho smiled in accordance with the sentiment of Sparkle, and declared he would not take the bet.
“It's of very little use,” cried Dashall, recovering himself after a short pause, “I may as well make a merit of necessity. I confess I have a sort of a liking for the gay and sprightly Lydia Forcetext, the parson's daughter; and if—but curse if's—I hate if, I wish there was no such word in the English language.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed Sparkle, “I thought we should find you out—but come, I think I may say there is not much for you to fear—if you are but serious.”
“It is a serious subject, and if we continue, this conversation I shall grow downright sentimental—so no more at present—we have not much time to spare—and as I mean to make use of every minute, let us look around for any novelty that may occur before your departure.”
“Well,” said Sparkle, “I must say I do not know of any thing so new to me as the very subject we were upon—but as you wish it dropped—why e'en let it be so—I have no desire to be either particular or personal.”
And as London's the object we've long had in view, As long as we can, we'll that object pursue. And as visions we know have been for an old grudge meant, We'll make ours a view—not a vision of—judgment.
“Good,” said Tom, “and as the lines are extemporaneous we will not be over-nice in the criticism.”