“Have I seen—what did you say?” replied Sally.
“A baker’s boy.”
“Many a one; baker’s boys aren’t that uncommon.”
“Just now, I mean.”
Sally looked up and down the yard.
“No, I can’t see a baker’s boy just now,” she said. “But if you want a baker’s boy, there’s a baker just round the corner, and another two streets away. I’m busy with my man’s washing, so don’t bother me no more.”
“Don’t you talk of bothers, mistress,” said the man, tartly. “You’ll be more bothered yet if you’re not careful. Didn’t I see the tail-end of the basket going into your door? The baker’s boy is inside, and the blackamoor too, and I’ve something to say to them, so——”
He suddenly pushed open the gate, forcing the woman back a pace, and was starting to run across the grass towards the house. But Sally was a woman of spirit. Whirling the roll of blanket round her head she brought it with a swish across the man’s neck, hurling him against the washtub. He caught at the rim to steady himself, disturbing the balance of the tub upon its stool. It toppled over with a crash, and the man lay between the stool and the tub in a pool of soapy water.
“What’s all this, missus?” cried a bluff voice.
In the doorway stood the burly waterman, Boulter himself, surveying the scene. Above his breeches he wore nothing but his shirt.