she dropped on a chair and laughed till
her sides ached.

Her husband ate humble pie that night before ever he set fork in the
cold meat: and for some days after, though she kept a close eye on
him, he showed no further sign of wanting to be lord of creation.
"Nothing like promptness," thought Sally to herself. "If I hadn't
taken that nonsense in hand straight off, there's no telling where it
wouldn't have spread." By the end of the week following she had put
all uneasiness out of her mind.

Next Saturday--as her custom was on Saturdays--she traded in
Plymouth, and didn't reach home until an hour or more past nightfall,
having waited on the Barbican for the evening fish-auction, to see
how prices were ruling. 'Twas near upon ten o'clock before she'd
moored her boat, and as she went up the street past the "Fish and
Anchor" she heard something that fetched her to a standstill.

She stood for a minute, listening; then walked in without more ado,
set down her baskets in the passage, and pushed open the door of the
bar-room. There was a whole crowd of men gathered inside, and the
place thick with tobacco-smoke. And in the middle of this crew, with
his back to the door, sat her husband piping out a song:

Ye sexes, give ear to my fancy;
In the praise of good women I sing;
It is not of Doll, Kate, or Nancy,
The mate of a clown nor a King--
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!

Old Adam, when he was creyated,
Was lord of the Universe round;
Yet his happiness was not complated
Until that a helpmate he'd found.
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!

He had all things for food that was wanting,
Which give us content in this life;
He had horses and foxes for hunting,
Which many love more than a wife,--

He had sung so far and was waving his pipe-stem for the chorus when
the company looked up and saw Sal straddling in the doorway with her
fists on her hips. The sight daunted them for a moment: but she held
up a finger, signing them to keep the news to themselves, and leaned
her shoulder against the doorpost with her eyes steady on the back of
her husband's scrag neck. His fate was upon him, poor varmint, and
on he went, as gleeful as a bird in a bath:

He'd a garden so planted by natur'
As man can't produce in this life;
But yet the all-wise great Creaytor
Perceived that he wanted a wife.--