Chapter 25

CHILDREN.

CHI. Fayther! fayther! fayther!

MR. POUR. Deuce take the little brats!

LUC. What yèu, villun, artn thee fit to drap, vur to tak to yur chillurn arter jis farshin, an' to keep thee eyes vàs, 'feerd thee mids show lig a father teu 'em? Thee shetn git away vrom me, yèu scàulus oseburd! I'll volly thee ivery place, and cry op thee wickedness 'gin I've asàrd thee out, an' 'gin I've amade thee zwing. Rascal, I sheud like vur to mak thee zwing vor't, an' that I sheud.

NER. Wilt not bloosh to spaik yon words, an' to tak no thowt o'th kissin' o' yon poor cheel? Thou'lt not get clear o' ma claws; aa can tell thee! an spoit o' thy showin' thy teeth, aa'l mak thee know 'at aa'm thy woif, an' aa'l mak thee hang for it.

CHIL. Fayther! fayther! fayther!

MR. POUR. Help! help! Where shall I run?

ORO. Go; you will do right to have him punished, and he richly deserves to be hanged.