“Better be hanged than hen-pecked,” retorted the lad with a malicious grin.
“What do you mean by that, sirrah?” cried Wood, reddening with anger. “Do you dare to insinuate that Mrs. Wood governs me?”
“It's plain you can't govern yourself, at all events,” replied Jack coolly; “but, be that as it may, I won't be struck for nothing.”
“Nothing,” echoed Wood furiously. “Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. But I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on condition—”
“You may do as you please, master,” interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; “but I wouldn't advise you to lay hands on me again.”
Mr. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression of his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of his threats to a more favourable opportunity. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further.
“Where did you learn the song I heard just now?” he demanded, in an authoritative tone.
“At the Black Lion in our street,” replied Jack, without hesitation.
“The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves,” groaned Wood. “And who taught it you—the landlord, Joe Hind?”
“No; one Blueskin, a fellow who frequents the Lion,” answered Jack, with a degree of candour that astonished his master nearly as much as his confidence. “It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on the beam.”