“A girl, uncle, in knickerbockers?”
“Yes, sir, a girl in knickerbockers. None of your sham innocency with me. Here, I know; it’s La Sylphide.”
“La what, uncle?”
“Mary Ann—old Simpkins’s daughter. That Tilborough barmaid girl. Here, speak up. What does this mean? Never mind; I can’t stop to talk to you now, but—go and slip that bag into the dogcart, Mark, and see that it’s ready.”
“All ready, Sir Hilton. I told Jim to be sharp, and I heard the wheels.”
“That’s right. But you saw, Mark. Wasn’t that Miss Simpkins?”
“Didn’t see her face, Sir Hilton; only her back.”
“Well, never mind now, I’ve no time. But look here, sir, I’ll have this over when I come back, and if I find that you—you shrimp of a boy—have been carrying on a flirtation with that saucy music-hall hussy, I’ll wale your jacket with one of the joints of that fishing-rod. A boy like you! What’s that you say?”
“No, you won’t, uncle.”
“What!” roared Sir Hilton.