“Don't, for goodness sake, play that horrid 'chune,'” said Molly, emphatically addressing the minstrels.
The 'fiddle' immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked the cook to name any other tune she preferred.
“Play us,” said she, “'Oh! no, we never mention her,' or summat o' that sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally.”
“Yes, marm,” replied the 'fiddle,' obsequiously; and, whispering the 'harp' and 'bass,' they played the air to her heart's content.
In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them to the musicians.
“Thanky'e, marm, I'm sure,” said the 'bass,' sticking his teeth into the pie-crust.
“The mutton 's rayther fat, but it 's sweet, at any rate!”
“Yes, marm,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's too fat for your stomach, I'm sure, marm;” and consigned it to his green-baize fiddle-case.
“Now,” said Molly,—“play us, 'Drink to me only,' and I'll draw you a mug o' table-ale.”
“You're vastly kind,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's a pleasure to play anythink for you, marm, you've sich taste;” and then turning to his comrades, he added, with a smile—“By goles! if she ain't the woppingest cretur as ever I set eyes on—”