“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, “will you tell him my opinion?”
“Oh! Why didn’t he marry,” Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and half crying, “Joe Pouch’s widder in North America? Then he wouldn’t have got himself into these troubles.”
“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “puts it correct—why didn’t you?”
“Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,” returns the trooper. “Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, not married to Joe Pouch’s widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me. It’s not mine; it’s yours. Give the word, and I’ll sell off every morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum wanted, I’d have sold all long ago. Don’t believe that I’ll leave you or yours in the lurch, Mat. I’d sell myself first. I only wish,” says the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, “that I knew of anyone who’d buy such a secondhand piece of old stores.”
“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet, “give him another bit of my mind.”
“George,” says the old girl, “you are not so much to be blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the means.”
“And that was like me!” observes the penitent trooper, shaking his head. “Like me, I know.”
“Silence! The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “is correct—in her way of giving my opinions—hear me out!”
“That was when you never ought to have asked for the security, George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things considered. But