“No, no—awnly seem’ how—”
“If it ’s all the same,” interrupted Will, “I’d like to knaw what you ’m gwaine for to do.”
“I’m gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard—nort at all. God He knaws you ’ve wronged me, an’ more ’n me, an’ her—Phoebe—worst of all; but I’ll lift no hand ag’in’ you. Bide free an’ go forrard your awn way—”
“To the Dowl!” concluded Billy.
There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion.
“You ’m a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an’ if theer was anything could make me sorry for the past—which theer ban’t—’t would be to knaw you’ve forgived me.”
“He ain’t done no such thing!” burst out Mr. Blee. “Tellin’ ’e to go to the Dowl ban’t forgivin’ of ’e!”
“That was your word,” answered Will hotly, “an’ if you didn’t open your ugly mouth so wide, an’ shaw such a ’mazing poor crop o’ teeth same time, me an’ Miller might come to onderstanding. I be here to see him, not you.”
“Gar! you ’m a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an’ I wouldn’t have no dealin’s with ’e for money,” snorted the old man.
“Theer we’ll leave it then, Blanchard,” said Mr. Lyddon, as Will turned his back upon the last speaker without answering him. “Go your way an’ try to be a better man; but doan’t ax me to forget what ’s passed—no, nor forgive it, not yet. I’ll come to a Christian sight of it some day, God willin’; but it ’s all I can say that I bear you no ill-will.”