“Look here, old woman, that’s a gal as can’t be drove. Ye can’t force her ter marry yer han’some son. An’ ye can’t force yer han’some son ter marry her—not unless he sees some strong inducements. An’ then, ye don’t expect ter make a prisoner o’ that gal, do yer? That racket’s played out, ’cept in the theatres. I don’t know what sent her here, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be satisfied with a short visit.”
“Franz,” remonstrates Mamma, “listen to me. That gal, the minit we step for’ard an’ prove her identity, is goin’ to come into a fortin’ as big as a silver mine. And we shan’t prove her identity—till she’s married ter you.”
Suddenly the manner of the Prodigal, which has presented thus far a mixture of incredulity and indifference, changes to fierce anger. Again he comes down upon his feet, this time with a quick spring that causes Papa to start and tremble once more.
“Now, you listen,” he says sharply. “The quicker yer stop this fool business, the better it’ll be fer yer plans. Who’s that gal, I say? How did she git inter yer clutches? What’s this fortin’, and where’s it comin’ from? When ye’ve answered these ’ere questions, ye kin talk ter me; not afore.”
“Jest trust us fer that, Franzy,” says Papa softly.
“Not any! Then here’s another thing: how are ye goin’ ter git that gal’s consent?”
“Trust us fer that, too,” says Mamma, in a tone betokening rising anger. “We know how ter manage her.”
“An’ that means that ye’ve got her young un! Now look here, both on ye. Do you take me fer a stool-pigeon, to go into such a deal with my eyes blinded? Satisfy me about the gal, an’ her right to a fortin’, an’ let me in to the young un deal, an’ I’m with ye. I don’t go it blind.”
And now it is Mamma’s turn. She bounds up, confronting her Prodigal, with wrath blazing in her wicked eyes.
Papa turns away and groans dismally: “Oh, Lord, they’re goin’ to quarrel!”