“Oh, as to that you must excuse me, sir,” cried Eve, with a scornful laugh; “that is being too inquisitive. Good-morning”; and she carried David off in triumph.
The next moment Mr. Talboys spurred on, followed by the phaeton. Talboys' face was yellow.
“La langue d'une femme est son epee.”
“Sheer off and repair damages, you lubber,” said David, dryly, “and don't come under our guns again, or we shall blow you out of the water. Hum! Eve, wasn't your tongue a little too long for your teeth just now?”
“Not an inch.”
“She might be vexed; it is not for me to boast of her kindness.”
“Temper won't let a body see everything. I'll tell you what I have done, too—I've declared war.”
“Have you? Then run the Jack up to the mizzen-top, and let us fight it out.”
“That is the way to look at it, David. Now don't you speak to me till we get home; let me think.”
At the gate of Font Abbey, they parted, and Eve went home. David came to the stable yard and hailed, “Stable ahoy!” Out ran a little bandy-legged groom. “The craft has gone adrift,” cried David, “but I've got the gear safe. Stow it away”; and as he spoke he chucked the saddle a distance of some six yards on to the bandy-legged groom, who instantly staggered back and sank on a little dunghill, and there sat, saddled, with two eyes like saucers, looking stupefied surprise between the pommels.