'Well, young ladies,' said the youth, 'so you're a-going home, are you,
worse luck?'
'Yes, Bailey, we're going home,' returned Mercy.
'An't you a-going to leave none of 'em a lock of your hair?' inquired
the youth. 'It's real, an't it?'
They laughed at this, and told him of course it was.
'Oh, is it of course, though?' said Bailey. 'I know better than that.
Hers an't. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder.
Besides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she
never know'd. I say, young ladies, I'm a-going to leave. I an't a-going
to stand being called names by her, no longer.'
Miss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to
whom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots,
or into the army.
'Into the army!' cried the young ladies, with a laugh.
'Ah!' said Bailey, 'why not? There's a many drummers in the Tower. I'm
acquainted with 'em. Don't their country set a valley on 'em, mind you!
Not at all!'
'You'll be shot, I see,' observed Mercy.
'Well!' cried Mr Bailey, 'wot if I am? There's something gamey in it,
young ladies, an't there? I'd sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a
rolling-pin, and she's always a-catching up something of that sort, and
throwing it at me, when the gentlemans' appetites is good.
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