Heale marched into the shop, evidently
making up her mind for an explosion.
"I am very sorry, sir, to have to speak to you upon such a subject,
but I must say, that the profane songs, sir, which our house is not at
all accustomed to them; not to mention that at your time of life, and
in your position, sir, as my husband's assistant, though there's no
saying (with a meaning toss of the head) how long it may last,"--and
there, her grammar having got into a hopeless knot, she stopped.
Tom looked at her cheerfully and fixedly. "I had been expecting this,"
said he to himself. "Better show the old cat at once that I carry
claws as well as she."
"There _is_ saying, madam, humbly begging your pardon, how long my
present engagement will last. It will last just as long as I like."
Mrs. Heale boiled over with rage: but ere the geyser could explode,
Tom had continued in that dogged, nasal Yankee twang which he assumed
when he was venomous:
"As for the songs, ma'am, there are two ways of making oneself happy
in this life; you can judge for yourself which is best. One is to do
one's work like a man, and hum a tune, to keep one's spirits up; the
other is to let the work go to rack and ruin, and keep one's spirits
up, if one is a gentleman, by a little too much brandy;--if one is a
lady, by a little too much laudanum."
"Laudanum, sir?" almost screamed Mrs. Heale, turning pale as death.
"The pint bottle of best laudanum, which I had from town a fortnight
ago, ma'am, is now nearly empty, ma'am.
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