sang Dick; but he had soon done, and his voice trailed off into a dismal wail, as, unable to contain themselves, Jessie’s face went down over her sewing machine and Mrs Shingle hid hers in her apron.
“My God! what can I do?” the poor fellow moaned, as, with a catching in his breath, he glanced at those most dear to him. “I hav’n’t a shilling in the world, and the more I try—the more I try—”
He caught up a hammer savagely, and began to beat vigorously at the leather, forcing himself to sing again, as if he had not seen the trouble of his wife and child—
“To get his fill, the poor boy did stoop,
And, awful to state, he was biled in the soup.”
“Oh, master, please, master, don’t sing that dreadful song,” cried Union Jack, with a dismal howl. “I can’t bear it: please, master, I can’t bear it, indeed.”
“Hold your tongue, you young ruffian,” cried Dick, with a pitiful attempt at being comic. “It’s a good job we’ve got you in stock; for if things do come to the worst, you’ll make a meal for many a day to come.”
“Oh, please, don’t talk like that, master,” cried the boy.
“Dick, dear,” whispered his wife, “don’t tease the poor lad: he half believes you.”
“I’m not teasing of him, mother,” said Dick aloud; “only it’s a pity to have to boil him all at once, instead of by degrees. Here, get out the cold tea, mother, and let’s take to drinking—have a miserable day, and enjoy ourselves. Jessie, my gal, you’ll rust that machine raining on it like that. Come, mother, rouse up; it’ll all come right in the end.”
“I was not crying, Dick,” said Mrs Shingle,—“not much.”