“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”
“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”
“He said he’d marry me.”
Then sharply:
“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”
She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie—the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.
“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”
“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”
“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”
“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.