“I’m pretty sure he won’t,” answered the Corporal, his gaze still abstracted.
“An’ theer ye be, Tom lad!” quoth the Aged Soul triumphantly. “See what oi’ve done fur ’ee an’ be dooly grateful.”
“I be, Gaffer!” answered Mr. Nixon, his gloom lifted from him. “Lemme fill your pot again. An’ you, Mus’ Doubleday, what’ll ye tak’, sir?”
“Nothing, thank ye, Nixon,” returned the Corporal, and his roving glance perceiving the flutter of a petticoat farther down the lane, he saluted the company and turned away.
“Robert,” cried the Aged Soul, admonishing finger uplifted, “if so be ye hap’ to meet my Nan, doan’t ’ee nowise say nothin’ about this ’ere liddle drop o’ ale, moind!”
“Not a word, Gaffer!” answered the Corporal, and strode away.
He found her demurely seated upon rustic bench in the little garden, busied with her needle and rather more shyly surprised to see him than usual.
“Why, Mus’ Doubleday,” she exclaimed as he opened the gate, “you be two hours afore your usual toime to-day!”
“Two hours four an’ one-half minutes, Mrs. Nan,” he answered, consulting the ponderous watch he carried.