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"You poor little pup," says he; "you haven't no show," he says. "That brute in the tap-room he'll eat your heart out." "That's what you think," says the Master, snarling. "I'll lay you a quid the Kid chews him up." The groom he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like that I begun to get a bit sad myself.
He said she was slatterly, or somethin' like that, and she called him a fool, and said she 'most knew he wished he'd took you, blind as you was, and he said, kinder sorry-like, 'Maude would never of called me a fool, nor wore such holes in the heels of her stockin's. I couldn't hear no more, but I knew by her voice that she was cryin', and when I went below and seen the doctor out behind the woodshed a-figgerin' up, says I to myself, `If I was a Univarselar, I should b'lieve they was all on 'em a-gittin' thar pay, but bein' I'm a Methodis', I don't believe nothin'."
"Howly Mither, man, she looked hurted and sorry-like, same's me owld mither uster, whin I was noctious with the blasthfemry." So the "Eyes" were on Dennis, too. That took some of the conceit out of me, I was getting foolish about the eyes.
"And then," she went on, suddenly throwing out an imperative gesture of silence "and then, after I've been in this here house a long, long time, and you all gits so's you like me awful awful awful well, then some day you'll go in that room there and that room there and in the kitchen and out on the porch and down the cellar and out in the smoke-house and the wood-house and the loft and all around oh, ever' place and in here and up the stairs and all them rooms up there and you'll look behind all the doors and in all the cubboards and under all the beds and then you'll look sorry-like, and holler out, kind o' skeert, and you'll say: 'Where is Mary Alice Smith? And then you'll wait and listen and hold yer breath; and then somepin' 'll holler back, away fur off, and say: 'Oh she has gone home! And then ever'thing'll be all still ag'in, and you'll be afraid to holler any more and you dursn't play and you can't laugh, and yer throat'll thist hurt and hurt, like you been a-eatin' too much calamus-root er somepin'!" And as the little gipsy concluded her weird prophecy, with a final flourish of her big pale eyes, we glanced furtively at one another's awestruck faces, with a superstitious dread of a vague indefinite disaster most certainly awaiting us around some shadowy corner of the future.
"You poor little pup," says he. "You haven't no show," he says. "That brute in the tap-room, he'll eat your heart out." "That's what you think," says the Master, snarling. "I'll lay you a quid the Kid chews him up." The groom, he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like, that I begun to get a bit sad myself.
Ethelyn shook her head, and Andy went on: "Oh, what a pity, when he is such a good Saviour, and would know just how to help you, now you are so sorry-like and homesick, and disappointed. If you had him you could tell him all about it and he would comfort you. He helped me, you don't know how much, and I was dreadful bad once.
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