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I've got one or two myself." "Indeed!" said Susan, "who for, I wonder?" "W'y, for one," replied the spider, "I've had a wery tender attachment to my mother ever since that blessed time w'en I was attached to her buzzum in the rampagin' hunger of infancy. Then I've got another attachment not quite so old, but wery strong, oh uncommon powerful for a young lady named Susan Quick.
"Out o' coal," hazarded Galton, "that's w'y she harsn't got back no sooner." "W'ere's 'er sails, then?" "A tug couldn't do nothin' with sails she isn't made for sails!" "It ain't w'ot ye're made for, hit's w'ot ye can git in this blarsted sea!" "Maybe 'er machin'ry's broke?" "Maybe they're hall sick?" "Or dead?" "Maybe " Madden hurried to his cabin and returned with binoculars.
Jope nodded. "You're right there; so you'd best give it over. Sorry to seem heartless, sir, but 'tis for your good: an' to walk home in your state would be a sin, when we can fix you up a bed in the house." Mr. Coyne opened his eyes, and they were twinkling vindictively. "Sleep in this house?" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't do it, not for a thousand pound!" "W'y not?"
Oh, Lord The Bench! W'y, hit 'll be the death of her. John, we cain't git to her too quick." And she ran from cupboard to press, from press to chest, from chest to bureau drawer, piling into John's arms the flask of brandy, the homely medicines, the warm garments, such bits of food as she could catch up that were palatable and portable.
"'For w'y shall I sell im, she say; 'I don' wear 'im before till to-night, an' I don' get no more dress lak' dis for t'ousan' dollar." Necia exclaimed excitedly. "For w'y you sell 'im? I say.
"Oh, 'cause," she said, starting up the stairs again by an entirely novel and original method of her own " 'cause Uncle Tomps ner Aunt 'Lizabeth don't live here; and when they ever come here to git their dinners, like they will ef you don't watch out, w'y, then I kin slip out here on these-here stairs and play like I was climbin' up to the Good World where my mother is that's why!"
At the word my doggie bounced from under my hand and began to leap joyfully round the boy. "I say," said Robin, pausing at the door and looking back, "she's all right I 'ope. Gittin' better?" "Who do you mean?" "W'y, the guv'ness, in course my young lady." "Oh, yes!
It jist drives me horn daft to think 'at ever he got the breast o' me. But I s' hae a grip o' 'im yet, or my name 's no what they ca' me." "It 's the w'y o' the warl', Mistress Findlay. What cud ye expec' o' ane born in sin an' broucht furth in ineequity?" a stock phrase of Mrs Catanach's, glancing at her profession, and embracing nearly the whole of her belief. "It 's a true word.
"W'y, Jim, ain't you cuttin' a swell?" "A swell! Well, who's got a better right? A man wants to look as well as he can when he comes home to such a family." "Hello, Jim!. That plug 'll never do." "Hello, Vance! Yes; but it's got to do. Say, you tell all the fellers that's got anything ag'inst me to come around tomorrow night to the store. I want to make some kind of a settlement."
"W'y d' y' fret a man 'fore he c'n git down an' into th' house?" he demanded. "Ah'm plumb fruz t' death, an' hungry." She helped him over the wheel and through the door. Then she went back and, in feverish haste, stabled the mules. On entering the shack, now dimly lighted by a fire, she did not need to repeat her question. She read the answer in her father's face.
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