“What do you mean?” sez he, lookin’ meachin’, meachin’ as a dog.
“Why,” sez I, a-feelin’ it my bounden duty to stand between Dora and trouble, “I mean that it is a shame and a disgrace for such a man as you are to even talk of takin’ a sweet, innocent young girl into a life like yours.”
“She fills my heart,” sez he, “and my life, and has for years.”
“Not full!” sez I, lookin’ at him keenly, “not full! If she did her sweet image would have banished the other vile inmates that have abounded there—wicked companions, evil ways of all kinds. What room is there in that black crew for an innocent young life like Dora’s? Have you got the heart,” sez I, “to try to entice that young girl into such a life as you know the wife of a dissipated man must lead—into woe and wretchedness, and an early grave, most likely?”
“I would reform,” sez he; “I would become a different man for her sake.”
“Why haven’t you, then?” sez I. “Why haven’t you reformed in all these years when you wuz on probation, as you may say, a-tryin’ to win her love? Do you think that you’d do better when you wuz sure of her and she wuz in your power? Now,” sez I, “I don’t want to be hash to you, and I don’t want to hender you from singin’ that
‘While the lamp holds out to burn
The vilest sinner may return,’
but I don’t want you to sing it here; I want you to go away and let Dora alone.”
“I never will,” sez he.