“When I stowed myself away over there,” resumes Franz, “I was more or less muddled. But I’m straight enough now, an’ my head’s clear. I’ve just reckelected about that gal’s comin’, an’—I say, old woman, can she hear us if she happens to be awake?”
“No,” replies Mamma, “she can’t—not unless we talk louder than we’re likely to.”
“Then haul up yer stool. We’re goin’ ter settle about her.”
The look which Mamma casts toward her worser half says, as plainly as looks can speak: “It’s coming.” And then she compresses her lips, and draws a chair near the table, while Papa occupies another, and Franz looks down upon the pair from his more elevated perch.
“Now, then,” begins Franz, “Who’s that ’ere gal?”
No answer from the two on the witness-stand. They exchange glances, and remain mute.
“Next,” goes on Franz, as if quite content with their silence, “wot’s all this talk about child-stealin’?”
Still no answer. Franz remains tranquil as before, and by way of diversion probably, squints along the shining barrel of his six shooter, and snaps the trigger playfully.
“Have ye got that gal’s young un?” he asks, still seeming to find the revolver an object of interest, “or hain’t ye?” Down comes the dangerous weapon upon the knee of its owner, and quite by accident, of course, it has Papa’s head directly in range.
Seeing which, that worthy moves quickly aside with an exclamation of remonstrance. But Mamma is made of other stuff. She leans forward and leers up into the face of her Prodigal.