To this proposition there was eager agreement from all the party save one; he maintained a somewhat moody silence.
“What say, Dirk?” the leader asked, addressing him; “are you ready for Poke's?”
“No; I don't think I'll go around, just now.”
“What, then? If you've got something better on hand, why don't you let a fellow know? We're not dying for Poke's place.”
“I haven't got a thing on hand; only I don't care about going there.”
“Where, then?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere! Mean place. Too cold weather to stop in the streets. There'll be a good fire at Poke's. You come along; don't go to getting the sulks; it ain't becoming, just after you've been to Sunday-school.”
But the young fellow persisted in gloomily refusing to join them, and presently they began to tease, in what they meant to be a good-natured way.
“Dirk's struck,” said one. “That yellow-haired party has got him by the throat; I saw her looking at him most uncommon sharp, when she was telling that biggest story of hers, about the serpent that swallowed. Dirk he thinks he's been swallowed by one of 'em; he feels it choking in his throat.”