“Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the breezy side of the flickering match.
It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! We have borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast—‘”
“So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy.
“‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me—‘”
“Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought to do it well.”
Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine.
“Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy sympathy.
And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though—longing mortal.”
Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy stepped out and said, “If you plaze, ma’am, the carriage is waiting this half-hour.”
“Then send it away again,” said Davy.