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"Why, sir," answered the Admiral, "I don't see that we should be late if we did not go at all." "Lucy, my dear," exclaimed Miss Acton, "play 'Now, Goody, Please to Moderate,' or 'My Lodging is on the Cold Ground,' or 'Sally in our Alley.' I do not care which. They are all very beautiful, and I know no song, brother, that carries me back like 'Sally in our Alley.' Do you remember how finely our father used to sing it? He was at Dr Burney's one night, sir," said she, talking to Mr Lawrence, "when a famous Italian singer of that day—who was it now?—she was as yellow as a guinea, and her hoops were so large there were many doors she could not pass through—who was it now? But no matter; after my father had sung she stepped over to him, and curtsying as though she would sit before him, she said: 'I have often heard this song sung and thought nothing of it. But now, sir, I shall ever regard it as the loveliest composition in English music.'" "Have you spoke any ships lately?" asked Captain Weaver..
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"May I have a word with you, sir?" he exclaimed in a coarse, hoarse, broken voice. "The Admiral and I," answered Captain Acton, talking as though slightly embarrassed, though moved by other feelings, "consider that we cannot do better than remove Mr Lawrence into this ship, and carry him to England." Billy's frown vanished. "Fine, Harry, fine," he commended, "an' I'll go down to the store with you. Come up to the house, now, and I'll manage to sneak you out some supper." "Where the dickens are my pants?" he whispered. "See anythin' of 'em, Bill?".
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