“Thee bee’st a plucky un, thersh no denying that. I don’t want to harm ’ee——”
“I wish I was a big strong man,” exclaimed Bessie, in a spiteful tone. “That’s what I wish.”
“And why, my pretty little spitfire?” inquired Bristow.
“I’d give you a good thrashing—that’s all.”
“Ah! indeed; then I’m glad you’re not.”
He flung himself into a chair, and looked the very personification of imbecility.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bristow; upon my word, you are a disgrace to the neighbourhood.”
“Am I?” said the man, with a short jerk of his body, and a stupid nod of his head; “a dishgrace, eh?”
“Certainly you are—everybody says so.”
“Look here, I aint a-goin’ to stand any o’ your cheek, blow me if I do—no, nor any of your preaching either. What are you, I should like to know?”