“All right; go on,” cried Tom.
“Well, sir, then he goes away and the keb waits and he walks by this here house, and begins whistling this chune as I’ve often heerd them orgin grinders play.”
The man sucked in his cheeks, and whistled three or four bars of the prison song in Trovatore.
“Then, as I kep my hye on him, I sees the front door open quietly, and a lady come out in a long cloak; and she seemed as if she was a-goin’ to faint away, but he kitches her tight, and half runs her along to wheer the keb was a-standin’, and I was ready for him this time, holding my arm over the wheel so as to keep the lady’s dress outer the mud.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Tom, for the man, who had kept on polishing his hat, dropped it and picked it up hastily, to begin repolishing it.
“Well, sir, she was a-cryin’ like one o’clock—in highsteriks like—and he says something to her in a furren languidge, and then, as she gets in he says, ‘Take keer,’ he says, called her by her name, like.”
“Name? What name?” cried Tom, eagerly.
“Well, you see, gov’nor, it sounded like Bella Meer, or Mee-her. ‘Take keer; Bella Mee-her,’ he says just like that.”
“Bella mia,” muttered Tom.
“Yes, sir, that’s it, sir; that were the young lady’s name; and then he jumps in, and I shoves down the apron, and he pokes the trap-door open, and away they goes down the Place like one o’clock.”