Just as you choose, my good Mr.Poet." And Tom returned to his work, singing an extempore parody of "We met, 'twas in a crowd," ending with-- "And thou art the cause of this anguish, my pill-box," in a howl so doleful, that Mrs.Heale marched into the shop, evidently making up her mind for an explosion.
"I am very sorry, sir, to have to speak to you upon such a subject, but I must say, that the profane songs, sir, which our house is not at all accustomed to them; not to mention that at your time of life, and in your position, sir, as my husband's assistant, though there's no saying (with a meaning toss of the head) how long it may last,"-- and there, her grammar having got into a hopeless knot, she stopped.
Tom looked at her cheerfully and fixedly.

"I had been expecting this," said he to himself.

"Better show the old cat at once that I carry claws as well as she." "There _is_ saying, madam, humbly begging your pardon, how long my present engagement will last.

It will last just as long as I like." Mrs.Heale boiled over with rage: but ere the geyser could explode, Tom had continued in that dogged, nasal Yankee twang which he assumed when he was venomous: "As for the songs, ma'am, there are two ways of making oneself happy in this life; you can judge for yourself which is best.

One is to do one's work like a man, and hum a tune, to keep one's spirits up; the other is to let the work go to rack and ruin, and keep one's spirits up, if one is a gentleman, by a little too much brandy;--if one is a lady, by a little too much laudanum." "Laudanum, sir ?" almost screamed Mrs.Heale, turning pale as death.
"The pint bottle of best laudanum, which I had from town a fortnight ago, ma'am, is now nearly empty, ma'am.