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Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. He went on with his song, accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces: "When years were gone by, she began to rue Her love for the gentleman, (meaning you!) 'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she, 'But where is my gallant of high degree? Where! where! Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?' Ho! ho! ho!" "What are you doing here!" demanded Thames. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman.
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