“Holla, you sir! it’s my turn to go in now. Biddy, wait,—girls have no innings—girls only fag out.”
“Bob, you cheat.”
“Pa, Ned says I cheat.”
“Very likely, my dear, you are to be a lawyer.”
“Where was I, my dear?” resumed Mrs. Hobbs, resettling herself, and readjusting the invaded petticoats. “Oh, about the leg of mutton!—yes, large joints are the best—the second day a nice hash, with dumplings; the third, broil the bone—your husband is sure to like broiled bones!—and then keep the scraps for Saturday’s pie;—you know, my dear, your father and I were worse off than you when we began. But now we have everything that is handsome about us—nothing like management. Saturday pies are very nice things, and then you start clear with your joint on Sunday. A good wife like you should never neglect the Saturday’s pie!”
“Yes,” said the bride, mournfully; “but Mr. Tiddy does not like pies.”
“Not like pies! that very odd—Mr. Hobbs likes pies—perhaps you don’t have the crust made thick eno’. How somever, you can make it up to him with a pudding. A wife should always study her husband’s tastes—what is a man’s home without love? Still a husband ought not to be aggravating, and dislike pie on a Saturday!”
“Holla! I say, ma, do you see that ‘ere gipsy? I shall go and have my fortune told.”
“And I—and I!”
“Lor, if there ben’t a tramper!” cried Mr. Hobbs, rising indignantly; “what can the parish be about?”