The man did know. “There’s sense in that.” he said approvingly. Peace was restored, and they would have reached Salisbury if they had not had some more beer. It unloosed the soldier’s fancies, and again he spoke of old Em’ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic variations.
“Jolly day,” repeated Stephen, with a straightening of the eyebrows and a quick glance at the other’s body. He then warned him against the variations. In consequence he was accused of being a member of the Y.M.C.A. His blood boiled at this. He refuted the charge, and became great friends with the soldier, for the third time.
“Any objection to ‘Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton’?”
“Rather not.”
The soldier sang “Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton.” It is really a work for two voices, most of the sauciness disappearing when taken as a solo. Nor is Mrs. Tackleton’s name Em’lv.
“I call it a jolly rotten song,” said Stephen crossly. “I won’t stand being got at.”
“P’r’aps y’like therold song. Lishen.
“‘Of all the gulls that arsshmart,
There’s none line pretty—Em’ly;
For she’s the darling of merart’”
“Now, that’s wrong.” He rode up close to the singer.
“Shright.”
“‘Tisn’t.”