Timothy sneered.
“Ah, well,” sighed Jehoshaphat, “an I was you, Timothy, I wouldn’t be harsh in judgment.”
Timothy laughed uproariously.
“Not harsh,” Jehoshaphat repeated, quietly—“not in judgment.”
“Damn un!” Timothy cursed between his teeth. “The greedy squid, the devil-fish’s spawn, with his garden an’ his sheep an’ his cow! You got a cow, Jehoshaphat? You got turnips an’ carrots? You got ol’ Bill Lutt t’ gather soil, an’ plant, an’ dig, an’ weed, while you smokes plug-cut in the sunshine? Where’s your garden, Jehoshaphat? Where’s your onions? The green lumpfish! An’ where do he get his onions, an’ where do he get his soup, an’ where do he get his cheese an’ raisins? ’Tis out o’ you an’ me an’ all the other poor folk o’ Satan’s Trap. ’Tis from the fish, an’ he never cast a line. ’Tis from the fish that we takes from the grounds while he squats like a lobster in the red house an’ in the shop. An’ he gives less for the fish ’n he gets, an’ he gets more for the goods an’ grub ’n he gives. The thief, the robber, the whale’s pup! Is you able, Jehoshaphat, t’ have the doctor from Sniffle’s Arm for your woman! Is you able t’ feed your kids with cow’s milk an’ baby-food?”
Jehoshaphat mildly protested that he had not known the necessity.
“An’ what,” Timothy proceeded, “is you ever got from the grounds but rheumatiz an’ salt-water sores?”
“I got enough t’ eat,” said Jehoshaphat.
Timothy was scornful.
“Well,” Jehoshaphat argued, in defence of himself, “the world have been goin’ for’ard a wonderful long time at Satan’s Trap, an’ nobody else haven’t got no more’n just enough.”