“Yes, you may laugh. I’ve had all the bother,” said Andrew.
“Serve ye right—marrying such cattle,” Old Tom snapped at him.
“They believe we’re bankrupt—owe fifty thousand clear, Tom!”
“Ha! ha!”
“Brewery stock and household furniture to be sold by general auction, Friday week.”
“Ha! ha!”
“Not a place for any of us to poke our heads into. I talked about ‘pitiless storms’ to my poor Harry—no shelter to be had unless we go down to Lymport, and stop with their brother in shop!”
Old Tom did enjoy this. He took a great gulp of air for a tremendous burst of laughter, and when this was expended and reflection came, his features screwed, as if the acidest of flavours had ravished his palate.
“Bravo, Nan! Didn’t think you were man enough. Ha! ha! Nan—I say—eh? how did ye get on behind the curtains?”
The tale, to guess by Andrew’s face, appeared to be too strongly infused with pathos for revelation.