“It might be as well,” says Don Sanchez, in his solemn, deliberate manner, “if Mistress Moll were advised to practise her steps in our rear.”

“Aye, Senor,” replied Dawson, “I’ve been of the same mind these last ten minutes.  But with your consent, Don Sanchez, I’ll put her to a more serious exercise.”

The Don consenting with a bow, Jack continues: 

“You may have observed that I haven’t opened my lips since we left the town, and the reason thereof is that I’ve been turning over in my mind whether, having come thus far, it would not be advisable to let my Moll know of our project.  Because, if she should refuse, the sooner we consider some other plan, the better, seeing that now she is in good case and as careless as a bird on the bough, and she is less tractable to our purposes than when she felt the pinch of hunger and cold and would have jumped at anything for a bit of comfort.”

“Does she not know of our design?” asks the Don, lifting his eyebrows.

“No more than the man in the moon, Senor,” answers Jack.  “For, though Kit and I may have discoursed of it at odd times, we have been mighty careful to shut our mouths or talk of a fine day at her approach.”

“Very good,” says Don Sanchez.  “You are her father.”

“And she shall know it,” says Jack, with resolution, and taking a stride or two in advance he calls to her to give over dancing and come to him.

“Have you forgot your breeding,” he asks as she turns and waits for him, “that you have no more respect for your elders than to choke ’em with dust along of your shuffling?”

“What a thoughtless thing am I!” cries she, in a voice of contrition.  “Why, you’re floured as white as a shade!”

Then taking up a corner of her waist-shawl, she gently rubs away the dust from the tip of his nose, so that it stood out glowing red from his face like a cherry through a hole in a pie-crust, at which she claps her hands and rings out a peal of laughter.

“I counted to make a lady of you, Moll,” says Jack, in sorrow, “but I see plainly you will ever be a fool, and so ’tis to no purpose to speak seriously.”

“Surely, father, I have ever been what you wish me to be,” answers she, demurely, curious now to know what he would be telling her.

“Then do you put them plaguy clappers away, and listen to me patiently,” says he.

Moll puts her hands behind her, and drawing a long lip and casting round eyes at us over her shoulder, walks along very slowly by her father’s side, while he broaches the matter to her.  And this he did with some difficulty (for ’tis no easy thing to make a roguish plot look innocent), as we could see by his shifting his bundle from one shoulder to the other now and again, scratching his ear and the like; but what he said, we, walking a pace or two behind, could not catch, he dropping to a very low tone as if ashamed to hear his own voice.  To all he has to tell she listens very attentively, but in the end she says something which causes him to stop dead short and turn upon her gaping like a pig.