Bob pushed his plate from him and, for a moment, seemed about to leave the table. Laura could not lift her eyes. Tilly chewed in angry silence.
Here, however, the child made a diversion.
"You're a lady-kilda yourself, pa."
"Me, Thumbkin?—Mother, d'you hear that?—Then it's the whiskers, Thumbby. Ladies love whiskers—or a fine drooping moustache, like my son Bob's." He sang: "'Oh, oh, the ladies loved him so!'"
"Tom, dear, DO be quiet."
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son!" chirped Thumbby.
"Well, well, let's call in the cats!"—which appeared to be his way of changing the subject.
It seemed, after this, as though the remainder of lunch might pass off without further hitch. Then however and all of a sudden, while he was peeling an apple, this dreadful man said, as though to himself: "Ra ... Ra ... Rambotham. Now where have I heard that name?"
"Wa ... Wa ... Wamboffam!" mocked Thumbkin.
"Monkey, if you're so sharp you'll cut yourself!—Young lady, do you happen to come from Warrenega?" he asked Laura, when Thumbkin's excited chirrup of: "I'll cut YOU, pa, into little bits!" had died away.