He had sung so far and was waving his pipestem for the chorus when the company looked up and saw Sal straddling in the doorway with her fists on her hips. The sight daunted them for a moment: but she held up a finger, signing them to keep the news to themselves, and leaned her shoulder against the door-post with her eyes steady on the back of her husband's scrag neck. His fate was upon him, poor varmint, and on he went, as gleeful as a bird in a bath-- _He'd a garden so planted by natur' As man can't produce in this life; But yet the all-wise great Creaytor Perceived that he wanted a wife. With his fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!_ "You chaps might be a bit heartier with the chorus," he put in. "A man would almost think you was afraid of your wives overhearin'-- _Old Adam was laid in a slumber, And there he lost part of his side; And when he awoke in great wonder He beyeld his beyeautiful bride._ _With_ my fol-de-rol, tooral--why, whatever's wrong with 'ee all? You're as melancholy as a passel of gib-cats." [And with that he caught the eye of a man seated opposite, and slewed slowly round to the door.] I tell you that even Sal was forced to smile, and the rest, as you may suppose, rolled to and fro and laughed till they cried. But when the landlord called for order and they hushed themselves to hear more, the woman had put on a face that made her husband quake. "Go ahead, Hancock!" cried one or two. "'With transport he gazèd----' Sing away, man!" "I will not," said the tailor, very sulky. "This here's no fit place for women: and a man has his feelin's. I'm astonished at you, Sarah--I reely am. The wife of a respectable tradesman!" But he couldn't look her straight in the face. "Why, what's wrong with the company?" she asks, looking around. "Old, young, and middle-aged, I seem to know them all for Saltash men: faults, too, they have to my knowledge: but it passes me what I need to be afeared of. And only a minute since you was singing that your happiness wouldn't be completed until that a helpmate you'd found. Well, you've found her: so sing ahead and be happy." "I will not," says he, still stubborn. "Oh, yes you will, my little man," says she in a queer voice, which made him look up and sink his eyes again. "Well," says he, making the best of it, "to please the missus, naybours, we'll sing the whole randigal through. And after that, Sarah"--here he pretended to look at her like one in command--"you'll walk home with me straight." "You may lay to that," Sal promised him: and so, but in no very firm voice, he pitched to the song again-- _With transport he gazèd upon her, His happiness then was complate; And he blessèd the marvellous forethought That on him bestowed such a mate_-- "I reckon, friends, we'll leave out the chorus!" They wouldn't hear of this, but ri-tooralled away with a will, Sal watching them the while from the doorway with her eyebrows drawn down, like one lost in thought.