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The energy with which Mr Hazlit poured out his words, and, as it seemed to Timms, the free and easy magnificence of his ideas were overpowering. "W'y, sir, I ain't got no money to do sitch a thing with," he said at last, with a broad grin.
"W'y, honey, I neber seed de like o' putty rings you's got on. Da's like de speret o' light er wrappin' round yo' fingers." "Mammy, they are but glittering memories." "Yas'm, da do shine might'ly ef dat whut you means." Tom and Lou were going out. "Don't stray off," said Mrs. Mayfield. "We are going to the post office, you know."
'Ucks don't know that, and I'm tonin' 'im up to it. . . . You 'aven't put in what I told yer about me tellin' Mr. Jessup as Bill was my brother-in-law an' 'is callin' back to us that 'e'd look after us 'ere." "No." "W'y not?" There was reason for Tilda's averted gaze. She had to watch the tug's deck. But why did her face flush? "Because it isn't true." "It got us 'ere," she retorted.
"My blessin's on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us," said Zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a pair of worsted cuffs; "nebber had no sore wrists since I put on dese. W'y you no use him, Gunter?" "'Cause I've lost 'em, you black baboon," was Gunter's polite reply.
Encouraged by the condescension of the remark, but disinclined to follow the path of reflection it indicated, Mistress Croale ventured a little farther upon her own. "Ye see, sir," she said, "as lang's there's whusky, it wull tak the throt-ro'd. It's the naitral w'y o' 't, ye see, to rin doon, an' it's no mainner o' use gangin' again natur.
"W'y, den you'll git whacked, an' you'll 'sperience uncommon hard times, an' you'll change you mind bery soon, so I t'ink, on de whole, you better change 'im at once. Seems to me you's a remarkably obs'nit young feller!"
'It's a guid Bible-curse, mother! It's but a w'y o' sayin "His wull be dune!" 'Ye needna be sae fell aboot the laird, Miss Barclay! He was nae partic'lar frien o' yours gien a' tales be true! remarked her admirer. 'I'm tellin ye tales is maistly lees. I hae kenned the laird sin' he was a wee laddie and afore that; and I'm no gaein to hear him leed upo' and haud my tongue!
One day he slipped in at Madame Garcia's kitchen door with such a woe-begone air, and slid a small sack of nearly ripe plantains on the table with such a misery-laden sigh, that madame, who was fat and excitable, threw up both hands and cried out: "Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo' w'y you look lak dat? What ees de mattare?" For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook his head gloomily and sighed again.
As he came level with me I hailed him loudly, whereupon he started erect and brought his horses to a stand: "Hulloa!" he bellowed, in the loud, strident tone of one rudely awakened, "w'at do 'ee want wi' I?" "A lift," I answered, "will you give a tired fellow a lift on his way?" "W'y I dunno be you a talkin' chap?" "I don't think so," said I.
Crathie wishes to see me, ma'am," rejoined Malcolm, taking up the shield of English, "I am ready. If not, please allow me to go." The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the factor's bed rang violently, and Mrs. Crathie's importance collapsed. "Come this w'y," she said, and turning led him up the stair to the room where her husband lay.
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