‘Dang my old sides! and so it might be. I have a bit of news—I thought there was something upon my tongue; but ‘tis a secret; not a word, mind, not a word. Why, Miss Hinton took a holiday yesterday.’
‘Yes?’ inquired the cook, looking up with perplexed curiosity.
‘D’ye think that’s all?’
‘Don’t be so three-cunning—if it is all, deliver you from the evil of raising a woman’s expectations wrongfully; I’ll skimmer your pate as sure as you cry Amen!’
‘Well, it isn’t all. When I got home last night my wife said, “Miss Adelaide took a holiday this mornen,” says she (my wife, that is); “walked over to Nether Mynton, met the comen man, and got married!” says she.’
‘Got married! what, Lord-a-mercy, did Springrove come?’
‘Springrove, no—no—Springrove’s nothen to do wi’ it—‘twas Farmer Bollens. They’ve been playing bo-peep for these two or three months seemingly. Whilst Master Teddy Springrove has been daddlen, and hawken, and spetten about having her, she’s quietly left him all forsook. Serve him right. I don’t blame the little woman a bit.’
‘Farmer Bollens is old enough to be her father!’
‘Ay, quite; and rich enough to be ten fathers. They say he’s so rich that he has business in every bank, and measures his money in half-pint cups.’
‘Lord, I wish it was me, don’t I wish ‘twas me!’ said the scullery-maid.