“Troos!” repeated Dancey, with a maudlin stare, “Troos—what is’t, lad?—what is’t, Betsey, gurl?”
“He called me a —,” answered the girl, reluctantly repeating the opprobrious epithet.
“He did! called you a —, Betsey? If he called ye th’-th’-that, I’ll sm-a-a-ash him into faggots!”
As the woodman uttered this characteristic threat, he attempted to raise himself into an upright attitude—apparently with the intention of carrying it into execution.
The attempt proved a failure; for, after half-regaining his legs, the intoxicated deer-stealer sank back into his chair—the “rungs” of which bent and cracked under his ponderous weight, as if about to part company with each other.
“Ee-s!” tauntingly continued the accuser, gaining confidence by the helplessness of Old Dick—otherwise dreaded by him. “Thee deserves to be called it! Thee be all I say—a—”
“You hear him, father? He has said it again!”
“Said what—what, Bets, gurl?”
“That I’m a—”
And Betsey once more repeated the offensive word, this time pronouncing it with fuller emphasis.