“Wonderful fishing now, Phil. I'm exporting a power of cod. Gretting postal orders and stamps, and I don't know what. Seven-and-sixpence in a single post from Liverpool—that's nothing, sir, nothing at all.”
Nancy brought back the child, whose silvery curls were now damp.
“What! a young lady coming in her night-dress!” cried Pete.
“Work enough! had to get it over her head, too,” said Nancy. “She wouldn't, no, she wouldn't. Here, take and dry her hair by the fire while I warm up her supper.”
Pete rolled the sleeves of his jersey above his elbows, took the child on his knee, and rubbed her hair between his hands, singing—
“Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door.”
Nancy clattered about in her clogs, filled a saucepan with bread and milk, and brought it to the fire.
“Give it to me, Nancy,” said Philip, and he leaned over and held the saucepan above the bar. The child watched him intently.
“Well, did you ever?” said Pete. “The strange she's making of you, Philip? Don't you know the gentleman, darling? Aw, but he's knowing you, though.”
The saucepan boiled, and Philip handed it back to Nancy.