“You see, lady, the poor girl is my wife’s niece, and she was born with a drunkard’s appetite. We have to give her drink, but we couldn’t hear of sending the poor child to a hospital; oh, no!”
Since the entrance of the Sister and Nance, Franz has apparently been engaged in steadying both his legs and his intellect. He now comes forward with a lurch, and inquires with tipsy gravity:
“Wot’s the row? Anythin’ as I kin help out?”
“Only a little word about our Nance, my boy,” replies Mamma, who has mastered, outwardly, her fit of rage. “The charitable lady wants our Nance.”
“The lady is very kind,” chimes in Papa; “but we can’t spare Nance, poor girl.”
“Can’t we?” queries Franz, aggressively, turning to look at the prostrate girl. “Now, why can’t we spare her? I kin spare her; who’s she, anyhow? Here you, Nance, git up.”
“Now, Franzy,”—begins Mamma.
“S’h-h, my boy,”—whispers Papa, appealingly.
But he roughly repulses Mamma’s extended hand.
“Let up, old woman,” he says, coarsely; and then, pushing her aside, he addresses the Sister: