“Will they go, Nan, eh? d’ ye think they’ll go?”
“Where else can they go, Tom? They must go there, or on the parish, you know.”
“They’ll all troop down to the young tailor—eh?”
“They can’t sleep in the parks, Tom.”
“No. They can’t get into Buckingham Palace, neither—’cept as housemaids. ’Gad, they’re howling like cats, I’d swear—nuisance to the neighbourhood—ha! ha!”
Old Tom’s cruel laughter made Andrew feel for the unhappy ladies. He stuck his forehead, and leaned forward, saying: “I don’t know—’pon my honour, I don’t know—can’t think we’ve—quite done right to punish ’em so.”
This acted like cold water on Old Tom’s delight. He pitched it back in the shape of a doubt of what Andrew had told him. Whereupon Andrew defied him to face three miserable women on the verge of hysterics; and Old Tom, beginning to chuckle again, rejoined that it would bring them to their senses, and emancipate him.
“You may laugh, Mr. Tom,” said Andrew; “but if poor Harry should find me out, deuce a bit more home for me.”
Old Tom looked at him keenly, and rapped the table. “Swear you did it, Nan.”
“You promise you’ll keep the secret,” said Andrew.