Getting rid of his purchasers, he carried his diminished pack to the door of a house more pretentious than the others, situated upon the river bank. His knock brought to the door a Teutonic damsel, who started back in undisguised dismay at the sight of the hawker.
“Hist, Katrine,” said he; “don’t make a row. How are you?”
“What do you want, Boston?” replied the girl, quickly. “I will not join any scheme against the peace of my cousin.”
“Sho, now, who asked you? It seems to me, my dear, that you don’t seem glad to see me, after so long a time.”
“I ain’t. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to come here? You were in trouble enough before, cheat that you are; but now—”
“Well, what now?”
“I won’t tell. It’s enough for you to know that something besides a broken head will be yours if you stay. Take up your pack, for heaven’s sake, and be off about your business.”
Boston passed his arm about the waist of the buxom girl, and led her into the kitchen. There he dropped his pack, drew her down upon his knee, and kissed her with hearty good-will. She struggled desperately, uttered a good many protests, and ended by returning his kisses in right good earnest.
“Dere now,” said Katrine, in her pretty English, just enough touched with the Teutonic element to give it a zest, “I hope you be satisfied. Now tell me why you come here? Be quiet, can’t you?”
The last exclamation was elicited by an attempt on the part of Boston to kiss her again. This she resisted, as in duty bound, until out of breath, and then yielded as before.