“Whas you say?” said the offender, cocking his head magisterially. “Whas you say, sir?” Then he sang:
Jake gave Moll a push—
Derry-derry-down.
Moll fell into a bush—
Derry-down-derry.
“Is that to your taste, capt’n? or d’ye prefer somethig i’ the psalmody fashion?”
Sir David and Mr. Tuke interfered. They had been moderate in their cups; and the latter, at least, was seasoned.
“Oh, Charlie!” said the baronet, “get off to bed with you. You’re drunk, man.”
“He’s got a face as sour as rennet, Davy. It’s cur-curdled the milk o’ human kideness in me.”
This was good for the manling. Mr. Tuke patted him on the back.