The second appeal called forth a more energetic response. This time Dancey’s attempt to get upon his feet was more successful.
Balancing himself against the back of his great arm-chair, he cried out:—
“Wull Walford! Thee be a villain! How dar’ thee call my daughter—a—a—hic-cock? Goo out o’ my house this minute; or if thee doant—hic-coo—if thee doant, I’ll split thy skull like a withy! Get thee goo-oo-oone!”
“I’ll do jest that!” answered Walford, sulkily rising from his chair, and scowling resentfully both on father and daughter. “I ha’ got a house o’ my own to go to; an’ dang me, if I doant take along wi’ me what be my own!”
Saying this, he whipped the stone jar from the table, stuck the cork into it; and placing it once more under his skirt, strode out of the deer-stealer’s dwelling.
“Da-ang thee, Dick Dancey!” he shouted back, after stepping over the threshold. “Thee be-est an old fool—that’s what thee be! An’ as for thee,” he added, turning fiercely towards Bet, “maybe thee hast seen thy fine fancy—for the last time. Hoora! I’ve did that this night, ’ll put iron bars atween thee an’ him. Dang thee, thou—”
And once more repeating the insulting epithet, the vile brute broke through the flimsy fence, and went reeling away into the woods. It was at this moment that his receding figure came under the eyes of Gregory Garth, just then approaching the cottage from the opposite direction.
“What be that he say ’bout iron bars?” inquired Dancey, slightly sobered by the unpleasant incident. “Who be he threatening, gurl?”
“I can’t say, father,” replied Bet, telling a white lie. “I think he don’t know himself what he says. He is the worse for drink.”
“That he be, ha! ha!—E-es—hic-coo—he must be full o’t—that hol-hol-lands he had up there at the old house—hic-coo! that ha’ done ’im up. The lad han’t got much o’ a head for drink. He be easy, to get over-c-c-come. Ha! ha! ha! I b’lieve Betsy, gurl, I’ve been a drinkin’ m’self? Never mind! Be all right after I ha’ a wink i’ the old arm-ch-ch-air. So here goo-go-es!”