_Charge!_"
When I had done she applauded so that my face burned until I was
discommoded and fell into her trap.
"I wish you'd written them, Master Wheatman."
"Well, I did," said I grumpily, not liking to be bereft of any little
glory in her eyes.
"What, you?" Her eyebrows arched and her lips curled. "You, oh, never.
'Smiting and praying'? 'The arm of the Flesh and the sword of the
Spirit.'" She mouthed the words deliciously.
"But, doubtless, when you see my Lord Brocton again, you'll put in the
Word and the praying." Here her sweet voice trailed off into a dainty
snuffle: "'My dear lord, since out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
proceedeth wisdom, hearken, I pray you, unto me, Oliver Wheatman, to wit
of the Hanyards, and amend ye your ways lest I hit you over your cockscomb
again, and very much harder than before. Repent ye, my lord, for the hour
is at hand, and if you don't, I'll thump you into one of our Kate's
blackberry jellies.' And here endeth the goodly discourse of that saintly
rib-roaster, Master Hit-him-first-and-then-pray-for-him Wheatman of the
Hanyards."
It was simply glorious to be so tormented by this witch with the dancing
blue eyes.
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