“It seems ter me, youngster,” she sneers, “that gal’s took a strong hold on yer sympathies. Ain’t ye gettin’ terrible curious?”
“Maybe,” retorts Franz, returning her gaze with interest; “an’ maybe, now, ’tain’t so much sympathy as ye may suppose. I don’t think sympathy runs in this ’ere family. The pint’s right here, and this is a good time to settle it. You two’s hung onter me ter stay by yer, an’ strike together fer luck, but I’m blessed ef I’m goin’ ter strike in ther dark. I’m goin’ ter see ter the bottom o’ things, er let ’em alone. An’ afore we drop this, I want these ’ere questions answered: Who is that gal, an’ why does she talk about bein’ your gal? Who is the young-un she talks of, an’ have you got it? I’m goin’ ter know yer lay afore I move.”
“Franz,” breaks in Papa deprecatingly, “jest give yer mother a chance. Maybe ye won’t ride sich a high horse when ye hear her plans fer yer good.”
And then, as if she has just received her cue, Mamma breaks in:
“Ah-h, Franz,” she says contemptuously, “I’m disappinted in ye! Wot were ye thinkin’ on, ter go an’ weaken afore a slip of a gal like that, talkin’ such chicken talk, an’ goin’ back on yer old mother!”
“I thought ye said ye’d got ter hang onto that gal, an’ she’d make all our fortin’s,” comments Franz.
“An’ so I did.”
“Well,” and he favors her with a knowing leer, “if that’s a fact, somebody needs ter git inter her good books, an’ she don’t ’pear to take much stock in you two.”
He points this sentence with a wink at Papa. And this gentleman, seeming to see his son’s gallantry in a new light, indulges in one of his giggles. Even Mamma grins visibly as she leans forward and pats him on his knee.
“Ah, you sly dog, ah-h! Look what luck’s throwed in our way, my boy! Ye’re bound ter be rich, if ye jest listen to yer mother.”