Kitty alone and I.’”
The instruments behind the lighted window-curtains were hushed. They had heard the rustic song.
“It is that, ain’t it?” pursued the man. “I’ll sing another verse, and make sure’
“‘So here’s an end to the lovers three,
Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone,
The Rat, the Mouse, and the little Frogee,
Kitty alone and I.’”
Within, the instrumentalists looked at each other. None spoke for a minute, and then the ’cello said, in a deep voice, as from a tomb, “Puddicombe han’t riz to the theme. He’s forgot and worked in that frog and mouse tune. Not but what it’s a good ’un, only unsootable.”
“It’s easy set right,” observed the first violin. “If you’ll wait, brothers, I’ll clap on my hat and run up to his house, and get him to titch it up a bit, and git the Kitty tune out of it altogether. The fugg was famous.”
“Yes,” said the second violin; “it’s only to stir it about a bit and shuffle as you do cards. Cut along with all your legs.”