“Sit down,” she said, in low, peremptory tones, and pushing the stool lately vacated by Franz toward her spouse; “sit down. We’re in a pretty mess, ain’t we?”
Papa seated himself and favored her with a vacant stare.
“Eh!” he said, absently; “what’s to be done?”
Mamma cast a quick look toward her recumbent Prodigal, and leaned forward until her lips touched the old man’s ear.
“Mind this,” she hissed; “he ain’t to know too much. He’s got the devil in him; it won’t do to put ourselves under his thumb.”
“Don’t you worry,” retorted Papa, in the same sharp whisper, “I ain’t anxious to be rode by the two of ye; Franzy’s too much like his ma. It won’t do to let him know everything.”
Mamma gave a derisive sniff, a sort of acknowledgment of the compliment—one of the only kind ever paid her by her worser half,—and then said:
“Franzy’ll be a big help to us, if we can keep him away from the cops. But you an’ me has planned too long to let him step in now an’ take things out of our hands. He’s too reckless; we wouldn’t move fast enough to suit him, an’—he’d make us trouble.”
“Yes,” assented the old man, “he’d have things his own way, or he’d make us trouble; he always did.”
Mamma arose, stirred the smouldering fire, and resuming her seat, began afresh: