“The son of William Bamforth?”
“His son.”
“And what the devil are yo’ doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren’t you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?”
“And what the devil are yo’ doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren’t you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?”
“I am not accountable to you for my actions that I know of. Again, your business?”
My mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket.
“Keep your distance, good woman, if its yo’ have the small pox. If I must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules,” cried the soldier, starting back in horror.
“Oh! good Mr. Soldier. What do yo’ want with our Ben? A quiet, harmless lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong, and him bedfast these six months past.”
Now heaven forgive you, mother!
“He played a mighty heavy fist for a sick man not three months gone, anyhow, good dame. Nay, keep your distance. Good God! if the old lady isn’t going to kneel to me.”