st delicate soup. Ah, you know how to do things at
Flamborough."

"Young mon, ye can ha' nune of yon potty. Yon's for mesell and t'
childer."

"My excellent hostess, mistake me not. I do not aspire to such lofty
pot-luck. I simply referred to it as a proof of your admirable culinary
powers."

"Yon's beeg words. What 'll ye hev te ate?"

"A fish like that upon your sign-post, madam, or at least the upper half
of him; and three dozen oysters just out of the sea, swimming in their
own juice, with lovely melted butter."

"Young mon, hast tha gotten t' brass? Them 'at ates offens forgets t'
reck'nin'."

"Yes, madam, I have the needful in abundance. Ecce signum! Which is
Latin, madam, for the stamps of the king upon twenty guineas. One to be
deposited in your fair hand for a taste, for a sniff, madam, such as I
had of your pot."

"Na, na. No tokkins till a' airned them. What ood your Warship be for
ating when a' boileth?"

The general factor, perceiving his way, was steadfast to the shoulder
cut of a decent cod; and though the full season was scarcely yet come,
Mrs. Precious knew where to find one. Oysters there were none, but she
gave him boiled limpets, and he thought it the manner of the place that
made them tough. After these things he had a duck of the noblest and
best that live anywhere in England. Such ducks were then, and perhaps
are still, the most remarkable residents of Flamborough. Not only
because the air is fine, and the puddles and the dabblings of
extraordinary merit, and the wind fluffs up their pretty feathers while
alive, as the eloquent poulterer by-and-by will do; but because they
have really distinguished birth, and adventurous, chivalrous, and bright
blue Norman blood. To such purpose do the gay young Vikings of the
world of quack pour in (when the weather and the time of year invite),
equipped with red boots and plumes of purple velvet, to enchant the coy
lady ducks in soft water, and eclipse the familiar and too legal drake.
For a while they revel in the change of scene, the luxury of unsalted
mud and scarcely rippled water, and the sweetness and culture of tame
dilly-ducks, to whom their brilliant bravery, as well as an air
of romance and billowy peril, commends them too seductively. The
responsible sire of the pond is grieved, sinks his unappreciated bill
into his back, and vainly reflects upon the vanity of love.

From a loftier point of view, however, this is a fine provision; and Mr.