“Eh, my! What have I done now?”
“Nowt to me, but my sister is Betsy Thwaites.”
“The deuce she is! Betsy isn’t half as nice-looking as you.”
“More shame on you that says it.”
“But, my dear girl, one should tell the truth and shame the devil.”
“Just listen to him!” Yet the window was raised a little higher, and the girl leaned out, for Pickering was a handsome man, with a tremendous reputation for gallantry of a somewhat pronounced type.
Fred, the stable help, struck the cob smartly with his open hand. Pickering swore, and bade him leave the mare alone and be off.
“I was sorry for Betsy,” he said, when the prancing pony was quieted, “but she and I agreed to differ. I got her a place at Hereford, and hope she’ll be married soon.”
“You’ll get me no place at Hereford, Mr. Pickerin’”—this with a coquettish toss of the head.
“Of course not. When is the feast here?”