"Do you want to see yo' wife with her head bowed down on the table?"
"Stop!"
"Do you want to hear yo' daughter cryin' down thar in the valley?"
"I tell you to stop!"
"Do you want to know that the little grave down yander—"
"Stop, Peters, stop!" the old man cried, and then held forth his hands. "You don't see nuthin' red on my hands, do you? Look, they are jest as nature made 'em. Peters, fur God's sake don't turn 'em red."
"That's good talk, Starbuck, an' it mout belong to the pulpit but not to business, an' I'm a business man."
"Yes, you look like it."
"And I'll act like it, too; I'll tell you that fur yo' own infermation. An' thar ain't a man in the country that likes to give out infermation better'n I do—when I see that it's goin' to be of use to somebody. But I don't like to waste my wisdom, Starbuck. Look, here, don't you know the right to ruin you has come down to me from my folks, like er old spinnin' wheel? It's a fact, and you know it. But I don't want to do it if I can help it. I know I would make yo' daughter a good husband, but frum what I kin gether she wouldn't wipe her feet on me."
"Oh, yes, Peters, she mout if she had been walkin' in the mud."