Wilton frowned.
“Did you see any carriage about, waiting?”
“Naw.”
“What did you do then?”
“Waited till they was out o’ sight.”
“Yes, and what then?”
“Ketched sparrers, and they arn’t game.”
The lout looked round, grinning at all present, as if he had posed the magistrate in whose presence he was standing, till his eyes lit on Mrs Wilton, who was listening to him intently, and to her he raised his hand, passing the open palm upward past his face till it was as high as he could reach, and then descending the arc of a circle, a movement supposed in rustic schools to represent a most respectful bow.
“Ah, Barker, Barker!” said the recipient, shaking her head at him; “you never come to the Sunday school now.”
“Grow’d too big, missus,” said the lad, grinning, and then noisily using his cuff for the pocket-handkerchief he lacked.