“There’s nobody else I could—”
“Oh!” he cried in a whirl. “To hear you say that—”
Footsteps crossed the quarter-deck, and scuffed in the path behind them.
“Hello! Ex-scuse me!” called a hearty though nasal voice. Like an aged Puck out of the bushes, Hab the teamster peered shiftily into their cover. The girl was away like a fawn.
The teamster’s head remained as though he were imbedded in the evergreens. Wagging it, he broke into batrachian song:—
“A young man come a-seekin’ her,
For to make her his dear,
An’ he to his trade
Was a ship’s carpenteer!”
“Didn’t think it of ye, Mile,” he added mournfully, then winked. “Ella stated you was down here. But she don’t figger what was up, and bless ye, I’ll never give it away.” He looked behind him, called “Here he is, Mr. Furfey,” and entered the lane.