“Yes, my boy.”
“Then what the dickens are ye mincin’ about? Why don’t ye settle the gal afore we pad?”
“Easy, my boy, easy,” remonstrates Papa.
“Just wot I say, Franz,” puts in Mamma. “When we leave here, it won’t be safe for us to take her—nor for you, either.”
“Safe!” cried Franz, springing from the table with excited manner; “safe! It ’ud be ruination! Afore to-morrow we must be out o’ this. I ain’t goin’ to run no chances. If ’twas safe to turn her loose, I’d say do it. I don’t believe in extinguishin’ anybody when ’tain’t necessary; but when ’tis, why—” He finishes the sentence with a significant gesture.
“But, Franz—” begins Mamma, making a feint at remonstrance.
“You shet up!” he exclaims; “I’m runnin’ this. The gal’s been tried an’ condemned—jest leave her to me, an’ pass on to the next pint. Have ye got a hen-roost handy?”
“D’ye think we’re in our dotage, Franzy,” said Papa plaintively, “that ye ask us such a question? Did ye ever know us to be without two perches?”
“Well, is it safe, then?”
“If we kin git there without bein’ tracked, it’s safe enough.”