“Who?” demanded the curate, with surprise.
“Why, the sloop, to be sure.”
“Oh! I thought you meant the lady—Ha, ha, ha!”
“He, he, he!”
“Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?” said Nicholas, showing the way from the shop into the parlour, where they found Mrs Forster, who had just come in from the back premises.
“Hope you’re well, Mr Curate,” sharply observed the lady, who could not be persuaded, even from respect for the cloth, to be commonly civil—“take a chair; it’s all covered with dust! but that Betsy is such an idle slut!”
“Newton handles her, as well as any man going,” observed Hilton.
“Newton!” screamed the lady, turning to her son, with an angry inquiring look—“Newton handles Betsy!” continued she, turning round to Hilton.
“Betsy! no; the sloop I meant, ma’am.”
Newton burst out into a laugh, in which he was joined by Hilton and his father.