It seemed to be their only notion of the romantic.

Now and then there was a poaching song; then one of the lowest flash London school--filth and all--was roared in chorus in presence of the women.
'I am afraid that you do not thank me for having brought you to any place so unfit for a gentleman,' said Tregarva, seeing Lancelot's sad face.
'Because it is so unfit for a gentleman, therefore I do thank you.

It is right to know what one's own flesh and blood are doing.' 'Hark to that song, sir! that's an old one.

I didn't think they'd get on to singing that.' The Blackbird was again on the table, but seemed this time disinclined to exhibit.
'Out wi' un, boy; it wain't burn thy mouth!' 'I be afeard.' 'O' who ?' 'Keeper there.' He pointed to Tregarva; there was a fierce growl round the room.
'I am no keeper,' shouted Tregarva, starting up.

'I was turned off this morning for speaking my mind about the squires, and now I'm one of you, to live and die.' This answer was received with a murmur of applause; and a fellow in a scarlet merino neckerchief, three waistcoats, and a fancy shooting-jacket, who had been eyeing Lancelot for some time, sidled up behind them, and whispered in Tregarva's ear,-- 'Perhaps you'd like an engagement in our line, young man, and your friend there, he seems a sporting gent too .-- We could show him very pretty shooting.' Tregarva answered by the first and last oath Lancelot ever heard from him, and turning to him, as the rascal sneaked off,-- 'That's a poaching crimp from London, sir; tempting these poor boys to sin, and deceit, and drunkenness, and theft, and the hulks.' 'I fancy I saw him somewhere the night of our row--you understand ?' 'So do I, sir, but there's no use talking of it.' Blackbird was by this time prevailed on to sing, and burst out as melodious as ever, while all heads were cocked on one side in delighted attention.
'I zeed a vire o' Monday night, A vire both great and high; But I wool not tell you where, my boys, Nor wool not tell you why.
The varmer he comes screeching out, To zave 'uns new brood mare; Zays I, "You and your stock may roast, Vor aught us poor chaps care." 'Coorus, boys, coorus!' And the chorus burst out,-- 'Then here's a curse on varmers all As rob and grind the poor; To re'p the fruit of all their works In **** for evermoor-r-r-r.
'A blind owld dame come to the vire, Zo near as she could get; Zays, "Here's a luck I warn't asleep To lose this blessed hett.
'"They robs us of our turfing rights, Our bits of chips and sticks, Till poor folks now can't warm their hands, Except by varmer's ricks." 'Then, etc.' And again the boy's delicate voice rung out the ferocious chorus, with something, Lancelot fancied, of fiendish exultation, and every worn face lighted up with a coarse laugh, that indicated no malice-- but also no mercy.
Lancelot was sickened, and rose to go.
As he turned, his arm was seized suddenly and firmly.