There was also
a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old
gentleman, not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald
head was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyond
dispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But, better far than fair
home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat or
drink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding over
all, the locksmith's rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef
grew insignificant, and malt became as nothing.
Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by. It's
too much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit
when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his--those lips within Sim's reach
from day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master,
but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.
'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over, and
they took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last night?'
'All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.'
'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you came
up!'
'Ay--Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all his
might.
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