“True!” said the lady; “they died game, and I be n't ashamed of 'em. But I owes a duty to Paul's mother, and I wants Paul to have a long life. I would send him to school, but you knows as how the boys only corrupt one another. And so, I should like to meet with some decent man, as a tutor, to teach the lad Latin and vartue!”
“My eyes!” cried Dummie; aghast at the grandeur of this desire.
“The boy is 'cute enough, and he loves reading,” continued the dame; “but I does not think the books he gets hold of will teach him the way to grow old.”
“And 'ow came he to read, anyhows?”
“Ranting Rob, the strolling player, taught him his letters, and said he'd a deal of janius.”
“And why should not Ranting Rob tache the boy Latin and vartue?”
“'Cause Ranting Rob, poor fellow, was lagged [Transported for burglary] for doing a panny!” answered the dame, despondently.
There was a long silence; it was broken by Mr. Dummie. Slapping his thigh with the gesticulatory vehemence of a Ugo Foscolo, that gentleman exclaimed,—
“I 'as it,—I 'as thought of a tutor for leetle Paul!”
“Who's that? You quite frightens me; you 'as no marcy on my narves,” said the dame, fretfully.