“Shan’t,” he growled. “I’m a-telling of the truth. It’s wonderful, sir, that it is. Give her a frying-pan and a bit o’ fire, and we shan’t never hurt for a bit o’ well-cooked victuals.”
“But—” began my father, when Morgan rushed in again.
“Washin’, sir, I forgot all about the washing. We shall want a tub and a line. Trees ’ll do for tying up to, and you’ll see we shall none of us ever want for clean clothes.”
“Do be quiet, Morgan.”
“I shan’t, Sarah. It’s only fair as the master should know what you can do, look you.”
“But I wish you people to think seriously now, while there is yet time,” said my father.
“Seriously, sir? Oh yes, we’ve been thinking of it seriously enough, and—I say, missus, do try and do without flat-irons; they’re very heavy kind o’ traps for a man to take in his kit.”
“Come, come,” said my father; “you had better think better of it, and not embrace such a rough life.”
“We have thought better on it, sir, and the very best too. We’re coming, and if you won’t take us, we’ll come without. And look you, sir, of course you’ll take some guns, and swords, and powder and shot.”
“Of course.”