Col. G. Gently, gently, young man!—If I give your neckcloth a twist now—!
Mat. Yes, there is a mistake—and a sad one for me! A wretch that would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you for.
Wat. You hear the young woman! She says it's all a mistake.—My good girl, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can't stand that sort of thing! A downright assault! I'm sorry I struck him, though—devilish sorry! I'll pay the damage with pleasure. (Puts his hand in his pocket.)
Mat. (turning away) And not a gentleman! (Kneels by THOMAS and weeps.)
Tho. (feebly.) Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw'm o' reet. Let th' mon goo. What's he to tho or mo?—By th' mass! aw'm strung enough to lick him yet (trying to rise, but falling back). Eigh! eigh! mo owd boans 'ud rayther not. It's noan blame sure to an owd mon to fo' tired o' feightin!
Mat. (taking' his head on her lap). Father! father! forgive me! I'm all yours.—I'll go home with you, and work for you till I drop. O father! how could I leave you for him? I don't care one bit for him now—I don't indeed. You'll forgive me—won't you, father? (Sobs.)
Tho. Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam—coom whoam.
Mat. Will mother forgive me, father?
Tho. Thi mother, chylt? Hoo's forgiven tho lung afoor—ivver so lung agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft as parritch.—Thae knows it, Mattie.
Wat. All this is very interesting,—only you see it's the wrong man, and I can't say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar—will you? I'm not the man, I tell you!