From the moment that Cæsar dropped on his knees at the door, Pete had been well-nigh choked by an impulse to laugh aloud. But now he bit his lip and said, “I did!”
“Behould ye now, as imperent as a goat!” said Cæsar, working his eyebrows vigorously. “You've mistaken your profession, boy. It's a play-actorer they ought to be making of you. You're wasting your time with a plain, respectable man like me. You must lave me. Away to the loft for your chiss, boy! And just give sheet, my lad, and don't lay to till you've fetched up at another lodgings.”
Pete, with his eye on the parson's face, could control himself no longer, and he laughed so loud that the room rang.
“Right's the word, ould Nebucannezzar,” he cried, and heaved up to his feet. “So long, Kitty, woman! S'long! We'll finish it another night though, and then the ould man himself will be houlding the candle.”
Outside in the road somebody touched him on the shoulder. It was the young man in the Alpine hat.
“My gough! What? Phil!” cried Pete, and he laid hold of him with both hands at once.
“I've just finished at King William's and bought a boat,” said Philip, “and I came up to ask you to join me—congers and cods, you know—good fun anyway. Are you willing?”
“Willing!” cried Pete. “Am I jumping for joy?”
And away they went down the road, swinging their legs together with a lively step.
“That's a nice girl, though—Kitty, Kate, what do you call her?” said Phil.