"So you are going stag-hunting? That's purely," laughed she.
"Why not?"
"I should have thought you'd best a' gone after your own wife, and brought her home."
"She is all right—at the Ship."
"I know she is at the Ship—just where she ought not to be; just where you should not let her be."
"She'll earn a little money."
"Oh, money!" scoffed Sarah Rocliffe. "What fools men be, and set themselves up as wiser than all the world of women. You've had Iver Verstage here; you've invited him over to paint your Matabel; and here he has been, admiring her, saying soft things to her, and turnin' her head. Sometimes you've been present. Most times you've been away. And now you've sent her to the Ship, and you are off stag huntin'." Then with strident voice, the woman sang, and looked maliciously at her brother.
"Oh, it blew a pleasant gale,
As a frite under sail,
Came a-bearing to the south along the strand.
With her swelling canvas spread.
But without an ounce of lead,
And a signalling, alack t she was ill-manned."
With a laugh, and a snap of her fingers in Bideabout's face, she repeated tauntingly:—
"And a-signalling, alack I she was ill-manned."