“I don’t like the way that boy goes on,” remarks Mamma, as she cuts for herself a slice of the bread.
Papa sets down his empty beer glass, and tilts back his chair.
“Don’t ye?” he queries carelessly.
“No, I don’t,” retorts Mamma with increasing energy. “He’s getting too reckless, and he swigs too much.”
“That’s a fact,” murmurs Papa, glancing affectionately at the beer pitcher.
“He’d ought ter lay low for a good while yet,” goes on Mamma, “instead of prowling off at all hours of the day and night. Why, he’s gone more’n he’s here.”
Papa Francoise brought his chair back into regular position with a slow movement, and leaning his two elbows upon the table, leered across at Mamma.
“Look here, old un,” he said slowly, “that fellow’s just knocked off eight or ten years in limbo, and don’t you s’pose he prizes his liberty? If he can’t keep clear o’ cops and beaks after his experience, he ain’t no son of mine. Don’t you worry about our Franzy; he’s got more brains than you an’ me put together. I’m blest if I know how he come by such a stock. I’m beginning to take pride in the lad.”
“Well,” rejoins Mamma viciously, “he ain’t much like you; if he was, there wouldn’t be so much to be proud of.”
“That’s a fact,” assented Papa cheerfully. “He ain’t like me; he sort o’ generally resembles both of us. And I’m blest if he ain’t better lookin’ than we two together.”