“Why, there’s on’y mud-flats,” he added.
“I’ll wait on the mud-flats fur the merciful tide.” She fastened her bonnet-strings firmly.
“The river is full of ice,” he urged.
“There will be room fur me,” she answered. Then, with a sudden exclamation of dismay, “My God! you’ve got no shoes and socks on! You’ll ketch your death. Go up-stairs d’reckly.”
“No,” replied Matt, becoming conscious for the first time of a cold wave creeping up his spinal marrow. “I’ll ketch my death, then,” and he sneezed vehemently.
“Put on your shoes an’ socks d’reckly, you wretched boy. You know what a bother I hed with you last time.”
He shook his head, conscious of a trump card.
“D’ye hear me! Put on your shoes and socks!”
“Take off your bonnet an’ sacque,” retorted Matt, clinching his fists.