“And no Christ Church fashion neither,” said Jenkin. “Fair play and Old England for ever!—Besides, to tell you a secret, his voice had a twang in it—in the dialect I mean—reminded me of a little tongue, which I think sweeter—sweeter than the last toll of St. Dunstan's will sound, on the day that I am shot of my indentures—Ha!—you guess who I mean, Frank?”
“Not I, indeed,” answered Tunstall.—“Scotch Janet, I suppose, the laundress.”
“Off with Janet in her own bucking-basket!—No, no, no!—You blind buzzard,—do you not know I mean pretty Mrs. Marget?”
“Umph!” answered Tunstall, dryly.
A flash of anger, not unmingled with suspicion, shot from Jenkin's keen black eyes.
“Umph!—and what signifies umph? I am not the first 'prentice has married his master's daughter, I suppose?”
“They kept their own secret, I fancy,” said Tunstall, “at least till they were out of their time.”
“I tell you what it is, Frank,” answered Jenkin, sharply, “that may be the fashion of you gentlefolks, that are taught from your biggin to carry two faces under the same hood, but it shall never be mine.”
“There are the stairs, then,” said Tunstall, coolly; “go up and ask Mrs. Marget of our master just now, and see what sort of a face he will wear under his hood.”
“No, I wonnot,” answered Jenkin; “I am not such a fool as that neither. But I will take my own time; and all the Counts in Cumberland shall not cut my comb, and this is that which you may depend upon.”