“I don’t think I ever heard about Admiral Byng and Nancy Dawson.”
“Well, then, I must tell ye. Byng didn’t fight the French and Spaniards at Minorca, but sailed away and sort o’ showed the white feather, and so was court-martialed and shot on his own ship.”
“What did Nancy do?”
“Oh, Nancy never did anything except kick up her heels; she’s the best dancer in London, so they say. We haven’t any theatre in this ’ere town, and don’t have much dancing. We have the Thursday lecture instead.”
Robert wondered whether the allusion to the lecture was said soberly or in sarcasm.
“In London they go wild over dancing. Maybe I might sing a song about her if ye would like to hear it.”
“I would like very much to hear it.”
Mr. Bushwick took the quid of tobacco from his mouth, cleared his throat, and sang,—
“‘Of all the girls in our town,
The black, the fair, the red, the brown,
That dance and prance it up and down,
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.
“Her easy mien, her shape, so neat,
She foots, she trips, she looks so sweet,
Her every motion so complete,—
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.
“‘See how she comes to give surprise,
With joy and pleasure in her eyes;
To give delight she always tries,—
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.’”
“That’s a good song,” said Robert. Mr. Bushwick put the quid once more in his mouth, and went on with the story.