A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Stephen Archer and Other Tales

G >> George MacDonald >> Stephen Archer and Other Tales




_Enter_ WATERFIELD.

_Bill_. Black your boots for a party, sir?

_Wat_. (_aside_) The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But wasn't she
a brick not to split! That's what I call devotion now! There _are_
some of them capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool
thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her father too hanging
about Gervaise's yesterday.

_Bill_. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they grin like a
Cheshire cat eatin' cheese!

_Wat_. Shine away, you beggar.

_Bill_ (_turning up his trousers_). I ain't no beggar, sir. Shine for
a shiner's fair play.

_Wat_. Do you live in this neighbourhood?

_Bill_. No, sir.

_Wat_. Where, then?

_Bill_ (_feeling where a pocket should be_). I don't appear to 'ave a
card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb's Court, Camomile
Street--leastways I do my sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived
there, what livin' I _have_ done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows
on.

_Wat_. Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson?

_Bill_. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the name. Is she a old
girl or a young un?

_Wat_. You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago!

_Bill_. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless you! I talks to
everybody. I ain't proud, sir.

_Wat_. Well, do you see this? (_holding up a sovereign_).

_Bill_. That's one o' them tilings what don't require much seein',
sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other twin, sir!

_Wat_. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for me--and another
to that when the thing's done.

_Bill_. 'Tain't stealin', sir?

_Wat_. No.

_Bill_. Cos, you see, Mattie--

_Wat_. Who did you say?

_Bill_. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'Tain't
stealin', you say, sir?

_Wat_. What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where
the girl Pearson lives--that's all.

_Bill_ (_snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth_). Now
then, sir!--What's the young woman like?

_Wat_. Rather tall--thin--dark hair--large dark eyes--and long white
hands. Her name's Matilda--Mattie Pearson--the girl you were talking
to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago.

_Bill_ (_dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it_). Golly! it
_is_ our Mattie!

_Wat_. Shall you know her again?

_Bill_. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by
them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin' of me this
mornin'. If you say her it was, I'll detect her for ye.

_Wat_. There's a good boy! What's your name?

_Bill_. Timothy, sir.

_Wat_. What else?

_Bill_. Never had no other--leastways as I knows on.

_Wat_. Well, Timothy--there's the other sov.--and it's yours the
moment you take me to her. Look at it.

_Bill_. My eye!--Is she a square Moll, sir?

_Wat_. What do you mean by that?

_Bill_. Green you are, to be sure!--She ain't one as steals, or--

_Wat_. Not she. She's a sempstress--a needlewoman, or something of the
sort.

_Bill_. And where shall I find _you_, sir?

_Wat_. Let me see:--to-morrow night--on the steps of St. Martin's
Church--ten o'clock.

_Bill_. But if I don't find her? It may be a week--or a month--or--

_Wat_. Come whether you find her or not, and let me know.

_Bill_. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, sir?

_Wat_. No; leave 'em.--Don't forget now.

_Bill_. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir!

_Wat_. There's that other skid, you know.

_Bill_. All right, sir! Anything more, sir?

_Wat_. Damn your impudence! Get along.

_Exit_. BILL _watches him into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S.

_Bill_. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter
our Mattie!--A right rig'lar swell! I knows 'em--soverings an' red
socks. What's come to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her,
vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell
vith his soverings--an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry, poor
gal!--This 'ere yellow-boy?--I 'ain't got no faith in swells--no more
'n in Daddy Longlegses--I 'ain't!--S'posin' he wants to marry
her?--Not if I knows it. He ain't half good 'nough for _her_. Too many
quids--goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's been a
crackin' o' cribs--_he_ has. I ain't a goin' to interduce our Mattie
to no sich blokes as him. No fathers or lovyers for me--says I!--But
this here pebble o' Paradise!--What's to be done wi' the cherub? I
can't tell _her_ a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove
like me, lookin' jes' as if I'd been an' tarred myself and crep'
through a rag-bag! They'd jug me. An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish
I 'adn't 'a' touched it. I'm blowed if I don't toss it over a
bridge!--Then the gent 'ain't got the weight on his dunop out o' me. O
Lord! what _shall_ I do with it? I wish I'd skied it in his face! I
don't believe it's a good un; I don't! (_Bites it_.) It do taste wery
nasty. It's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! Jes' what a cove might
look for from sich a swell! (_Goes to a street lamp and examines it_.)
Lor! there's a bobby! (_Exit. Re-enter to the lamp_.) I wish the
gen'leman 'ad guv me a penny. I can't do nothin' wi' this 'ere quid.
Vere am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was to stow it
in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag--an' Mother Madge 'ud soon
have me by the chops. Nor I've got noveres to plant it.--O Lor! it's
all I've got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence.
It's all up with Bill--_for_ the night!--Where's the odds!--there's a
first-class hotel by the river--The Adelphi Arches, they calls
it--where they'll take me in fast enough, and I can go to sleep with
it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin' to you there. Nobody as sees me
in that 'ere 'aunt of luxury, 'ill take me for a millionaire vith a
skid in his mouth. 'Tain't a bit cold to-night neither (_going_).--Vy
do they say a _aunt_ of luxury? I s'pose acause she's wife to my
uncle. _Exit_.

_Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice_. THOMAS
_crosses between. Dawn_.

_Re-enter_ BILL.

_Bill_. I'm hanged if this here blasted quid ain't a burnin' of me
like a red-hot fardin'! I'm blest if I've slep' more 'n half the
night. I woke up oncet, with it a slippin' down red lane. I wish I had
swallered it. Then nobody 'd 'a' ast me vere I got it. I don't wonder
as rich coves turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil's in this
'ere!

_Knocks at_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S door. JAMES _opens. Is shutting it
again_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.

_Bill_. Hillo, Blazes! where's your manners? Is that the way you
behaves to callers on your gov'nor's business?

_James (half opening the door_). Get about your own business, you
imperent boy!

_Bill_. I'm about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov'nor.

_James_. _You_'ve got business with _him_, have you, eh?

_Bill_. Amazin' precoxity! You've hit it! I _have_ got business with _him_,
Door-post--not in the wery smallest with _you_, Door-post!--essep' the
knife-boy's been and neglected of your feet-bags this mornin'. (JAMES
_would slam the door_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.) Don't you try that
'ere little game again, young man! for if I loses my temper and takes
to hollerin', you'll wish yourself farther.

_James_. A humbug you are! I 'ain't got no gov'nor, boy. The master as
belongs to me is a mis'ess.

_Bill_. Then that 'ere gen'lemen as comes an' goes, ain't your
master--eh?

_James_. What gen'leman, stoopid?

_Bill_. Oh! it don't matter.

_James_. What _have--you--got_ to say to _him_?

_Bill_. Some'at pickled: it'll keep.

_James_. I'll give him a message, if you like.

_Bill_. Well, you may tell him the bargain's hoff, and if he wants his
money, it's a waitin' of him round the corner.

_James_. You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen'leman's a goin'
to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! (_Makes a dart at
him_.)

_Bill_ (_dodging him_). How d'e do, Clumsy? Don't touch me; I ain't
nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own
rearin' now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins.

_James_. None o' your imperence, young blackie! 'And me over the
money, and I'll give it to the gen'leman.

_Bill_. Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow?

JAMES _makes a rush_. BILL _gets down before him_. JAMES _tumbles
over him_. BILL _blacks his face with his brush_.

_Bill_ (_running a little way_). Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack--his mark!
Who's blackie now? You owes me a penny--twopence--'twor sich a ugly
job! Ain't shiny? I'll come back and shine ye for another penny. Good
mornin', Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don't on no account apply your
winegar afore you've opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter don't melt
on a cold tater. _Exit_.

_Exit_ JAMES _into the house, banging the door_.

_Enter_ WATERFIELD, _followed by BILL.

_Bill_. Please, sir, I been a watchin' for you.

_Wat_. Go to the devil!

_Bill_. I'd rayther not. So there's your suv'ring!

_Wat_. Go along. Meet me where I told you.

_Bill_. I won't. There's yer skid.

_Wat_. Be off, or I'll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! _Exit_.

_Bill_. Well, I'm blowed! This quid '11 be the hangin' o' me! _Damn
you_! (_Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it_.) Serves
me right for chaffin' the old un! He didn't look a bad sort--_for_
a gov'nor.--Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or
other, afore. O Lord! I'll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for
him. (_Enter_ THOMAS.) Lor' ha' mussy!--talk o' the old un!--I'm wery
peticlar glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin' for ye--leastways
I was a goin' to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed
you like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an' I'm wery sorry. But
you see fathers ain't nice i' this 'ere part o' the continent. (_Enter_
JAMES, _in plain clothes, watching them_.) They ain't no good nohow to
nobody. If _I_ wos a husband and a father, I don't know as how I should
be A One, myself. P'r'aps I might think it wur my turn to break arms and
legs. I knowed more 'n one father as did. It's no wonder the boys is a
plaguy lot, daddy.

_Tho._ Goo away, boy. Dosto yer, aw've seen so mich wickedness sin' aw
coom to Lon'on. that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to
goo wi' tho? There be thieves and there be robbers.

_Bill_. Never fear, daddy. You ain't worth robbin' of, I don't think.

_Tho._ How dosto knaw that? Aw've moore 'n I want to lose abeawt mo.

_Bill_. Then Mattie 'ill have som'at to eat--will she, daddy?

_Tho._ Som'at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry--dun yo think?

_Bill_. Many and many's the time, daddy.

_Tho._ Yigh--afore her dinner!

_Bill_. And after it too, daddy.

_Tho._ O Lord!--And what does hoo do when hoo 's hungry?

_Bill_. Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy?

_Tho._ O Lord! Mo Mattie, an' nothin' to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw'm beawn
to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw'll goo.

_Bill_. Come along then, daddy.

_James (collaring him_). Hullo, young un! You're the rascal as stole the
suvering: _I_ saw you!

_Bill_. Dunno what you're up to. I never stole nothink.

_James_. Oh no! of course not! What's that in yer fist now? (_Catches_
BILL'S _hand, and forces it open_.) There!

BILL _drops his stool on_ JAMES'S _foot, throws up the coin, catches
it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth_.

_Tho._ Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw're agooin wi' a
thief--aw wur!

_Bill_. Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me.

_James_. That's what they allus says, sir.--You come along.--I'd be
obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him.

_Tho._ Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it.

_James_. You saw it in his hand.

_Tho._ Yigh! aw did.

_Bill_. It wis guv to me, I tell ye.

_James_. Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do you
think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old
gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every
penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might--I've knowed as much.
It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.--Come along, you bad boy!

_Bill_. I didn't, take it. And I won't go.

_James_. Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up.

_Bill_. You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me in
charge?

_James_. Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' to
do!

_Bill_. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth.
I'll kiss twenty books on it.

_James_. I won't ax you.--Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the
shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even
got a box--nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't
no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks
pockets.

_Bill_. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life.

_James_. Bad language, you see! What more would you have?

_Tho._ Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that!

_Bill_. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae
made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a
deevil--yo did.

_James_. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the
very worst boys in all London.

_Bill (aside_). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and
Paul!--Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin'
adwantage o' your woolliness. _I_ knows him. His master guv me the
suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was.

_James_. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old
gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say.
Hey! Police!

_Bill_. Here you are! _(Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on
his jacket, and offers it._) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx
there.--He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter
all.

_James (taking the coin_). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective
hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest
livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to
go to.

BILL _moves two paces, and takes a sight at him_.

_Tho._ The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then?

_James_. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in
his beat.

_Bill_. My eye! there's a oner!

_Tho._ Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo.

_James_. I will.--If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in
charge at oncet.

_Bill (bolting five yards_). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you
right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him.

_Tho._ Goo away.

_Bill_. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye,
skelington! _Exit_.

_Tho._ Eh! sech a boy!

_James_. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie?

_Tho._ Aw do, sir.

_James_. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent?

_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her.

_James_. Then there's Mattie Winchfield?

_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her.

_James_. Then there's Mattie Pearson?

_Tho._ Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer?

_James_. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call
a cab, and we'll go comfortable.

_Tho._ But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab--as yo co it.

_James_. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to
expense!

_Tho._ It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best.

_James_. Hey! Cab there! _Exeunt_.

_Re-enter_ BILL, _following them_.

_Bill_. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the
yellow-boy--he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove
but the one as tells him the truth!

_Exit_.

_Enter from the house_ MRS. CLIFFORD. _Enter from opposite side_
COL. G.

_Col. G._ I was just coming to see you, Clara.

_Mrs. C._ And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you
would have come yesterday.

_Col. G._ My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were _not_ his
father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning.

_Mrs. C._ Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter.

_Col. G._ Or something better than fortune.

_Mrs. C._ You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce
when you please, and in triumph.

_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax
to end what you are pleased to call _the farce_ now. As if I could make
a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I
had him here.

_Mrs. C._ You would like to double the watch--would you?

_Col. G._ Something has vexed you, Clara.

_Mrs. C._ I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day.

_Col. G._ I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish
you would come and see him a little oftener.

_Mrs. C._ He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't
come alone.

_Col G._ Why not?

_Mrs. C._ Constance would fancy I did not want to take her.

_Col. G._ Then why not take her?

_Mrs. C._ I have my reasons.

_Col. G._ What are they?

_Mrs. C._ Never mind.

_Col. G._ I insist upon knowing them.

_Mrs. C._ It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I
_will_ if you use such an expression.

_Col. G._ But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordère with you?

_Mrs. C._ He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head.

_Col. G._ She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her.

_Mrs. C._ She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to
meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last
_my_ time.

_Col. G._ Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride _be_ a Christian virtue.

_Mrs. C._ I see! You'll be a radical before long. _Every_thing is going
that way.

_Col. G._ I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all
that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as
yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on
that side.--If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry
her?

_Mrs. C._ She may be unfit for him.

_Col. G._ How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in
love with birds.

_Mrs. C._ It's a risk--a great risk.

_Col. G._ None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more
worth taking. I wish my poor boy--

_Mrs. C._ Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in
pleasing you, brother!

_Col. G. (aside_). She _knows_ something.--I must go and see about his
dinner. Good-bye, sister.

_Mrs. C._ Good-bye, then. You will have your own way!

_Col. G._ This once, Clara. _Exeunt severally_.

END OF ACT II.




ACT III.

SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN.


_Mat_. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but
hunger may be as easy a way as another.

_Sus_. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would
choose.

_Mat_. There are worse ways.

_Sus_. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'.

_Mat_. There's that button-hole done. (_Lays down her work with a
sigh, and leans bade in her chair_.)

_Sus_. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's
wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.

_Mat_. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content
with bread, I think.

_Sus_. Bread, indeed!

_Mat_. Well, it's something to eat.

_Sus_. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone?

_Mat_. Bread's very good with a cup of tea.

_Sus_. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!--If you'd
mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!

_Mat_. I never tasted lobster-salad.

_Sus_. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care
about your wittles: _I_ do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.

_Mat_. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.

_Sus_. I _can't_ eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of
'unger. It's only I'm peckish. _Very_ peckish, though. I could eat--let
me see what I _could_ eat:--I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen
oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken--if it
was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it--and a Bath-bun, and a
sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that
crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of
champagne.

_Mat_. I don't know what one of those things tastes like--scarce one;
and I don't believe you do either.

_Sus_. Don't I?--I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating
lobster-salad many a time;--girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me,
Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I _am_ so
hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to
you as if you was fit to talk to--not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses
your work about as if it dirtied their fingers--and them none so clean
for all their fine rings!

_Mat_. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very
pretty girl with him, poor thing!

_Sus_. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her!

_Mat_. I suppose she was hungry.

_Sus_. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat _me_. No, Mattie! I
spoke of a _real_ gentleman.

_Mat_. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if
he was civil to you?

_Sus_. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I
set eyes on him.

_Mat_. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan?

_Sus_. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl.

_Mat_. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a
lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes
fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back.
Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them--if he speaks ever so
soft.

_Sus_. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort.

_Mat_. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be
rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this,
that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a
horse--no--nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word
to say to one of them. If I die, Susan--

_Sus_. If you do, Matilda--if you go and do that thing, I'll take to
gin--that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you
beforehand.

_Mat_. How can I help dying, Susan?

_Sus_. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do
it, Matilda--La! there's that lumping Bill again--_al_ways a comin' up
the stair when you don't want him!

_Enter_ BILL.

_Mat_. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?

_Bill_. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (_Holds out his
stool_.) It ain't respectable.

_Mat_. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest.

_Bill_. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a
three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars
chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does--only there's too
many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a
feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a
joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny.

_Sus_. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us!

_Bill_. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in
the right place--as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him
up for purfane swearin'.--When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I
axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin'
of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. _Some_
on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.--But I
say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you--do you now?

_Mat_. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill.

_Bill_. You don't want a father--do you now? Do she, Susan?

_Sus_. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one
about, have you?

_Bill_. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.

_Mat_. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell--I repeats it--a
astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie.

_Sus_. (_pulling him aside_). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her!
You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you
see how white she is?

_Mat_. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.

_Bill_. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with
a hivory 'andle.

_Sus_. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him
where she is, she'll never speak to you again.

_Mat_. Oh, Susan! what _shall_ I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall
have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent.

_Sus_. There, Bill!

_Bill_. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old
one neither.

_Mat_. There wasn't an old man with him?--not an old man with a long
stick?

_Bill_. Not with _him_. Daddy was on his own hook?

_Mat_. It must have been my father, Susan. (_Sinks back on her chair_.)

_Sus_. 'Tain't the least likely.--There, Bill! I always said you was no
good! You've killed her.

_Bill_. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was.

_Mat_. (_reviving_). Run and fetch him, Bill--there's a dear! Oh! how
proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it--not
for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him.

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