"But, Tom, I don't know how we can take you in, for we have a Lodger."
"Oh my Goodness! Nay, don't put the poor Fellow to Inconvenience on my Account, pray."
"Certainly not!" cried Prue, indignantly. "Why, Mr. Fenwick is quite a Gentleman!"
"Oh, is he so?" said Tom, bursting out laughing, "and pray, what am I? 'Sir, you're no Gentleman!'—is that it, Prue?"
"Why, you're Tom, and that's all."
"And that's enough too, isn't it? Oh, I can swing my Hammock anywhere. I wouldn't put Anyone to the smallest Inconvenience. Would sooner catch my Death of Cold, or lose every Shot in my Locker."
"Tom, you're such a thoughtless, good-tempered Fellow, we must pack you in somewhere."
"Oh, no, Uncle! don't think of it. I'll be off to the Three Bells. Only, there are two Belles here I like better."
"But, Tom, I shouldn't like you to get your Pocket picked."
"And I," said my Mother, "should not like you to take your Death of Cold."