“It’ll take a power o’ listenin’ unless yer git down ter business. An’ now, once more, wot does the gal mean by talkin’ about a child that’s stole?”
“Never mind the young un, boy,” replies Mamma, her face hardening again; “how do ye like the gal?”
“Like the gal? Wot’s that got ter do with it?”
“Listen, Franz,” and Mamma bends forward with uplifted forefinger; “I’ll explain all that needs explainin’ by an by. S’pose it should turn out as that gal, that’s come here and throwed herself into our hands, should fall heir to—well, to a pile o’ money. What would you be willin’ to do ter git the heft of it?”
“Most anything,” replies Franz coolly, and letting his eyes drop to the weapon in his hand. “I shouldn’t ‘weaken,’ nor play ‘chicken,’ old un. But I’d want ter see the fortin’ ahead.”
“Hear the boy!” chuckles Mamma in delight. “But we don’t want none o’ that,” nodding toward the revolver. “It’s a live gal ye want.” Then leaning forward, she whispers sharply: “You have got ter marry the gal!”
Franz stares at his mother for full ten seconds. Then slowly lowering first one leg and next the other, he stands upon his feet, and embracing himself with both arms, he indulges in what appears to be a violent fit of noiseless laughter.
“Marry the gal!” he articulates between these spasms. “Oh, gimmini! won’t she be delighted!”
“Delighted or not,” snarls Mamma, considerably annoyed by this levity on the part of her Prodigal, “she’ll be brought to consent.”
But the spasm has passed. Franz resumes his position on the table, and looks at Mamma, this time with the utmost gravity, while he says: