"Ah! but, my dear boy," said Mr. Oakley; "you really don't seem to have any idea of what a dreadful man he is—you don't, indeed."
"I don't care either, father; but I only wish one thing, and that is, that he would be so good as to trust himself, for about half a minute, within arms-length of me, that's all."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Mrs. Oakley. "My dear son, you don't know he used to—to—what did he call it, Johanna?"
"Polish people off, ma."
"Ah, to be sure."
"Well, it's no use talking," said Mark; "but if ever I get hold of him, I'll polish him off to some purpose. But you have just come in time for me to say a very serious thing to you, mother, indeed."
"Oh, what is it?" cried Mrs. Oakley.
"Don't agitate us," said old Mr. Oakley, putting on his spectacles upside-down. "Don't agitate us, my boy, but tell us at once what the dreadful thing is."
"Why, pa," said Johanna, "Mark did not say it was a dreadful thing he was going to say."
"Well, then, my dear, what is it?"