The serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand. The gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of the ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except the youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid, maintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature) invoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become of Todgers's when CHARITY and MERCY were banished from its walls. The oracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according to the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to the present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the strain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were nearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn't been an island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a nautical tack, it closed with this verse:
As they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the gentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of distance. and so it died away, and Todgers's was left to its repose.
Mr. Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put his head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their trunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of a young dog in trying circumstances: when that animal is supposed by persons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen and ink.
`Well, young ladies,' said the youth, `so you're a-going home, are you, worse luck?'
`Yes, Bailey, we're going home,' returned Mercy.
`An't you a-going to leave none of 'em a lock of your hair?' inquired the youth. `It's real, an't it?'
They laughed at this, and told him of course it was.
`Oh, is it of course though?' said Bailey. `I know better than that. Hers an't. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder. Besides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she never know'd. I say, young ladies, I'm a-going to leave. I an't a-going to stand being called names by her no longer.'
Miss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to whom, Mr. Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots, or into the army.
`Into the army!' cried the young ladies, with a laugh.
`Ah!' said Bailey, `why not? There's a many drummers in the Tower. I'm acquainted with 'em. Don't their country set a valley on 'em, mind you! Not at all!'
`You'll be shot, I see,' observed Mercy.
`Well!' cried Mr. Bailey, `wot if I am? There's something gamey in it, young ladies, an't there? I'd sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a rolling-pin, and she's always a-catching up something of that sort, and throwing it at me, when the gentlemans' appetites is good. Wot,' said Mr. Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, `wot, if they do consume the per-vishuns. It an't my fault, is it?'
`Surely no one says it is,' said Mercy.
`Don't they though?' retorted the youth. `No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn't say it is! but some one knows it is. But I an't a-going to have every rise in prices wisited on me. I an't a-going to be killed because the markets is dear. I won't stop. And therefore,' added Mr. Bailey, relenting into a smile, `wotever you mean