"I counted to make a lady of you, Moll," says Jack, in sorrow, "but I see plainly you will ever be a fool, and so 'tis to no purpose to speak seriously."
"Surely, father, I have ever been what you wish me to be," answers she, demurely, curious now to know what he would be telling her.
"Then do you put them plaguy clappers away, and listen to me patiently," says he.
Moll puts her hands behind her, and drawing a long lip and casting round eyes at us over her shoulder, walks along very slowly by her father's side, while he broaches the matter to her. And this he did with some difficulty (for 'tis no easy thing to make a roguish plot look innocent), as we could see by his shifting his bundle from one shoulder to the other now and again, scratching his ear and the like; but what he said, we, walking a pace or two behind, could not catch, he dropping to a very low tone as if ashamed to hear his own voice. To all he has to tell she listens very attentively, but in the end she says something which causes him to stop dead short and turn upon her gaping like a pig.
"What!" he cries as we came up. "You knew all this two months ago?"
"Yes, father," answers she, primly, "quite two months."
"And pray who told you? " he asks.
"No one, father, since you forbade me to ask questions. But though I may be dumb to oblige you, I can't be deaf. Kit and you are for ever a-talking of it."
"Maybe, child," says Dawson, mightily nettled. "Maybe you know why we left Alicante this morning."
"I should be dull indeed if I didn't," answers she. "And if you hadn't said when we saw the ships that we might meet
