Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear
it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't
sing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all
round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could
say, "Come, Tim," except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of
unnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began
to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather
savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye
wonna like." A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was
not to be urged further.
"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to show
that he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a roos
wi'out a thorn.'"
The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted
expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity
rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to
Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his
mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some
time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear
David's song.
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