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When told that the Push was waiting for him, he had listened without interest; the matter seemed foreign and remote. The velvety touch of his son's frail body still thrilled his nerves; its sweet, delicate odour was still in his nostrils. And he flatly refused to go. Chook was beside himself with excitement; tears stood in his eyes. "W'y, y'ain't goin' ter turn dawg on me, Jonah, are yer?"
You sut'ny look lak you plumb tukahed out. Come in an' tell me all 'bout yo'se'f, you po' little t'ing. Dese yo' little brothas an' sistahs?" "Yes'm," said Patsy Ann. "W'y, chil', whaih you goin'?" "I don' know," was the truthful answer. "You don' know? Whaih you live?" "Oh, I live down on Douglas Street," said Patsy Ann, "an' I's runnin' away f'om home an' my step-mothah."
"Right, sir; you're right," cried John Marrot energetically, raising himself a little from the bench on which he lay, "right in sayin' we shouldn't ought to expect parfection, but wrong in supposin' the old mail-coaches was safer. W'y, railways is safer. They won't stand no comparison.
Me an' Florette was ole friends, see? No foolishness, if you know what I mean. I'm a married man myse'f Bowers there on the card's my wife but me an' Florette met about five years ago, an' kep' on runnin' on to one another on the bill, first one place an' then another. So she was glad to see me again, an' me her. 'W'y, w'ere's Freddy? I says, first thing.
Plain 's day. didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?" Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. "W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white whiskers?" "Ye-es," said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis. "Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?"
"Say," he said, "you must have some claim for sale, like an old feller I met over in New Mex. "'W'y, young man, he says when I wouldn't bite, 'you're passing up the United States Mint. If you had Niagara Falls to furnish the power, and all hell to run the blast furnace, and the whole State of Texas for a dump, you couldn't extract the copper from that property inside of a million years.
W'y, weren't you 'owling for fresh tins every blessed day? 'Ow often 'ave I 'eard you send the 'ole bloomin' dinner off and tell the man to chuck it in the swill-tub? And breakfast? O, my crikey! breakfast for ten, and you 'ollerin' for more! And now you 'can't 'most tell'! Blow me if it ain't enough to make a man write an insultin' letter to Gawd!
How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a " The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped out, slamming the door after him. Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like." "Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn.
You see that old sinner Jeph refuses pint-blank to let me use his `hide; he's become such a hypocrite that he says he won't encourage smugglin'." "Well, wot then?" inquired Rodney Nick. "W'y, I means to make 'im give in," returned Long Orrick. "An' s'pose he won't give in?" suggested Rodney. "Then I'll cut his throat," replied Orrick, fiercely. "Then I'll have nothin' to do with it."
He crossed the street, trying to show by his walk that his presence was a mere accident. "Cum in," cried Ada. "Mum won't eat yer." Mrs Yabsley, who was ironing among a pile of shirts and collars, looked up, with the iron in her hand. "W'y, Joe, ye're quite a stranger!" she cried. "Sit down an' make yerself at 'ome."
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