“‘You’d get pretty well singed, Botch,’ says I.
“‘I’d want t’ be singed!’ says he.
“‘Well, Botch,’ says I, ‘I don’t know where you’d best lay your course for, heaven or hell. But I knows, my b’y,’ says I, ‘that you better give your soul a rest, or you’ll be sorry.’
“‘I can’t,’ says he.
“‘It’ll get t’ one place or t’other,’ says I, ‘if you on’y bides your time.’
“‘How do you know?’ says he.
“‘Why,’ says I, ‘any parson’ll tell you so!’
“‘But how do you know?’ says he.
“‘Damme, Botch!’ says I, ‘my mother told me so.’
“‘That’s it!’ says he.