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"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.'" "How sits the wind?" enquired Captain Acton, who being used to his daughter's occasional absence took no particular interest in her failure that morning to attend the breakfast table. "Has she eaten anything, can you tell me?".
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The teacher followed his host, gingerly rubbing the knuckles which had been left blue by the farmer's strong grip. "All right," gruffly assented his companion, "if you're so cock sure, it suits me all right. Come on; let's get out of this cussed woods. Remember we've got some work before us tonight." "Yep," went on Scroggie, "Dad owns some big oil wells in the States. He ain't got any business down here anyways, but he's so pig-headed you can't tell him anythin'; I'll say that much, even if he is my father. It's bad enough for him to lug me away from town, but he made Lou come along, too." He had the grace, sense, and tact, to offer his hand to Miss Acton, who said: "Do not let go of me. Those are very narrow planks. If I should be left alone in the middle, I should turn giddy and tumble.".
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