“Well, well,” commented the landlord. “You ought to let old ’Neas Bright have a look at ye both. He’s up in the almhouse now, poor old chap, through not bein’ able to work any more, but he’d hobble down if he was to know ye were here.”
“Send for en, then, send for en,” cried John eagerly; “but look ye, landlord—keep the secret. Don’t ye let the folks know who we are or what we’ve come for, else maybe the children ’ull catch as yet.”
The landlord laughed and promised, and thereupon John went back to his lady, whom he found peeping cautiously out at the Market Place from behind the window curtain.
“Did you think about ordering dinner?” inquired she.
“No, my dear, I left that to you.”
“Oh, John,” she cried bashfully, “I feel nervous-like. I don’t want to ring the bell and have folks starin’ at me. Go down again and order it—at twelve sharp.”
“What shall we have?” he inquired.
“There now—to ask such a thing. Why, the same as we had this day fifty year ago, of course.”
“And what was that?” asked he.
“Why, John, I never thought you would forget anything about that day. We had a beefsteak-pudding and a boiled fowl with parsley-and-butter sauce, and potatoes in their jackets, and greens.”