“I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Drummer,” said Jinny with judicial frigidity, “if you knew less about women than I know about horses.”
“I’ve seen half the world, I tell you.”
She flicked up Methusalem. “But not the better half.”
He winced again. “Fiddlesticks!” was all he could find to answer.
“Drumsticks!” rejoined Jinny gaily, and with a mocking flourish of her horn, she receded afresh.
Something stronger than his will now shot him forward crying: “I say, Jinny!” He meant by crying that old familiar name to disclose himself, and then to have it out with her, side by side on the driving-board.
She turned her head. “Do you want to jump on or don’t you?” she called.
It was the last straw. Jinny—he had forgotten—-was not a name privileged for the friend of her pelisse and pinafore days: any male might use it, just as any wayside rough might abuse its owner. “I don’t,” he shouted savagely. “I’ll never patronize a woman carrier.”
“A dashing young lad from Buckingham!” She had started singing, whether to herself or at him, he could not tell, and he strode behind the cart almost as rapidly as Methusalem before it, to find out whether she was still answering back.
But apparently she had forgotten him—that was the most pungent repartee of all—and the gaiety of the chorus only added salt to the smart: