“I reckon,” observed Mr Flint, calmly cutting into a pasty, “that black snails be some whither when there is no wet at hand.”
“Gramercy, nay!” cried unphilosophical Mistress Flint.
“Oh, so?” said he. “Fall they from the sky, trow, or grow up out o’ th’ ground?”
“Dear heart (darling, beloved one), Jack Flint! how can I tell?” answered his wife.
“Then, dear heart, Mall Flint!” responded he, imitating her, “I’d leave be till I so could.”
Mistress Flint laughed; for nothing ever disturbed her temper, and the banter was as good-humoured as possible.
“Well, for sure!” said she. “Is there ne’er a man put in the pillory, nor a woman whipped at the cart-tail, nor so much as a strange fish gone by London Bridge? Ha, Nan! yonder’s a stranger in the bars. Haste thee, see what manner of man.”
Anne left the form on which she was sitting, and peered intently into the grate.
“’Tis a dark man, Mother,” said she, after careful investigation.
“Is he nigh at hand?” inquired Mistress Flint anxiously.