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Updated: May 12, 2025
Well, I got in bad, and I ain't blamin' nobody and I ain't blamin' myself and that's why I ain't hangin' my head about anything I done. And I ain't kickin' because I got started on the wrong foot. I'm figurin' how I kin git started on the other foot and keep a-goin'." "But why should you tell me about these things? I can't help you. And it seems terrible to think about them.
"You don't deserve it you reelly don't," she said, more in sorrow than in anger; then with a sharp change of tone, "And you three 'ave been allowin', I s'pose, that our best chance to escape notice is travellin' around with a fur coat an' a sixty-foot Theayter Royal? . . . W'y, wot was it put Glasson on our tracks? . . . Oh, I'm not blamin' yer!
It's just over." With a sense of shame Ruth withdrew her hand from Tots. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "Nonsense!" said Tots kindly. "Nobody's blamin' you, my child. It's this infernal heat. You stay quietly here for a bit. I must go back and see that Danvers signs his name all right. But I'll come and fetch you afterwards." He departed, and Ruth suddenly realised an urgent need for solitude.
"Well, 'twas a kind o' notion he seemed to have, and o' course, though it's ill blamin' the absent" here he uttered a queer little laugh "when all's said and done he hasn't acted so very well. Any chap wi' a heart in's breast 'ud ha' took thought for his own mother, and 'ud ha' seen as she was kept comfortable an' happy in her owd age, and not forced to shift to a strange place."
So one bright day, when Ould Michael was sunning himself on his porch, the stage drove up to his door and, as in the old days, dropped the mail-bag. Ould Michael stood up and, waving his hand to the driver, said: "Shure, ye've made a mistake; an' I'm not blamin' ye." "Not much," said the driver. "I always bring my mail to the postmaster." "Hurrah!" I sung out. "God save the Queen!"
She wud be gled, though she wud greet, if I got a bullet the morn. There ye are! That's me! 'Wullie! Macgregor exclaimed, holding out his hand, which the other ignored. 'I'm rotten, tae, he went on, bitterly. 'Fine I ken it. But I never had an equal chance wi' you. I'm no blamin' ye. Ye've aye shared me what ye had.
"Well, 'tis hard blamin' the young men because every young lady you meet looks better to you than the last until you meet the next an' so you go on to another until you're so old that no one would marry you at all unless you had lots of money, a bad liver, an' a shaky heart."
"Well, 'e won't they'll never let the likes o' you or me beyond the gates." "That remains to be seen," said I. "So you 'm goin', are ye?" "I certainly am." "All right!" nodded Job, "if they sets the dogs on ye, or chucks you into the road don't go blamin' it on to me, that's all!" "What be ye really a-goin', Peter?" "I really am, Ancient." "Then by the Lord! I'll go wi' ye." "It's a long walk!"
"Naw, I ain't blamin' 'em, though I don't hanker ter view 'em," he resumed. "One of 'em I wouldn't be afeard of, though. I feel mighty sorry fur her. The old folks used ter tell about her. A young 'oman she war, a-crossin' this bredge with her child in her arms.
First over one shoulder and then over the other as the executioner worked with swift fingers to bind him into a rigid parcel of a man, he uttered what was both a dreadful threat and a yet more dreadful promise. "I ain't blamin' these other folks here," he proclaimed.
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