“O,” said the landlady, “somebody else has listed.”
“I hope it beant that silly Joe. I warned un two or three times agin thic feller.”
“There have been several to-night,” said the landlady, who had scarcely yet recovered from the insinuations against the character of her house.
“How does thee know thic, my dear lady?”
“O, because Miss Prettyface have been in and out sewin’ the colours on all the evening, that’s all. Sergeant Goodtale be the best recrootin’ sergeant ever come into a town—he’d list his own father!”
“Would ur, now?” said Bumpkin. “Beant thee afeard o’ thy husband bein’ took?”
Mrs. Oldtimes shrieked with laughter, and said she wished he would list Tom, for he wasn’t any good except to sit in the chimney corner and smoke and drink from morning to night.
“And keep up th’ Army,” growled the husband
“Ha, keep up the Army, indeed,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “you do your share in that way, I grant.”
Now it was quite manifest that that last cheer from the taproom was the herald of the company’s departure. There was a great scuffling and stamping of feet as of a general clearing out, and many “good nights.” Then the big manly voice of the Sergeant said: “Nine o’clock, lads; nine o’clock; don’t oversleep yourselves; we shall have chops at eight. What d’ye say to that, Mrs. Oldtimes?”