told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself onto the king’s breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times — and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:

“The brute! Come, don’t waste a minute — not a second — we’ll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!”

Says I:

“Cert’nly.

But do you mean before you go to Mr. Lothrop’s, or — “

“Oh,” she says, “what am I thinking about!” she says, and set right down again. “Don’t mind what I said — please don’t — you won’t, now, will you?”