Sal went back, composed as you please, and let herself in by the
front door. In the parlour she found her man still seated in the
easy chair and smoking, but sulky-like, and with most of his
monkey-temper leaked out of him.
"What have you been doin', pray?" asks he.
Sal looked at him with a twinkle. "Kissin'," says she, untying her
bonnet: and with that down 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.
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