“I was awful far gone on Toosday night I remember,” groaned the luckless yeoman, wiping a clammy brow. “But a man shouldn’t be held accountable for what he says when he’s that way.”
“Lor’ bless you,” returned Cross cheerfully, “the law don’t take no account of such excuses. You weren’t incapable, you see; you was able to walk about, an’ put your arm round her waist an’ that.”
“Ugh! I must ha’ been far gone.”
“I don’t know about that. Says you, ‘My beauty,’ says you, ‘my little charmer, you an’ me must be a pair,’ says you; ‘I’ve come to the country to look for my match,’ says you.’”
“I couldn’t have said that,” interrupted Willcocks. “’Tisn’t true to begin with. I am going out to the front in a few weeks.”
“Ah,” commented Sam, “you told her that, an’ you asked her to go back with you.”
“But hang it, man, the thing’s impossible—ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous! I should just think it was. You’ll be the laughin’-stock of the countryside! What will Chrissy Baverstock say—an’ Mary an’ Rosie, an’ the rest of them, and all their fellows when it comes out in court? And it certainly will, without you marry her.”
“Good Lord,” cried poor Willcocks, now quite unnerved, “is there no way out of it? Look here, I know you’re a good chap—I—I’d make it worth your while. I’ve got a few pounds. Couldn’t you just—just hush it up?”
Sam pursed up his mouth into whistling form.