Already in an agony of embarrassment, this speech reduced Phil to still more desperate straits. He could look at his father only in a kind of dumb appeal, and that individual, seeing his son ’s helplessness, spoke again.
“I’d hev left the youngsters ter snook araound till they wuz able ter fix things by themselves,” Mr. Hennion explained. “But the times is gittin’ so troublous thet I want ter see Phil sottled, an’ not rampin’ araound as young fellers will when they hain’t got nuthin’ ter keep them hum nights. An’ so I reckon thet if it ever is ter be, the sooner the better. Yer gal won’t be the wus off, hevin’ three men ter look aout fer her, if it duz come on ter blow.”
“Well said!” answered the squire. “What say ye, Matilda?”
“Oh, dadda,” came an appeal from the tambour-frame, “I don’t want to marry. I want to stay at home with—”
“Be quiet, child,” spoke up her mother, “and keep thine opinion to thyself till asked. We know best what is for thy good.”
“He, he, he!” snickered the elder Hennion. “Gals hain’t changed much since I wuz a-courtin’. They allus make aout ter be desprit set agin the fellers an’ mortal daown on marryin’, but, lordy me! if the men held off the hussies ’ud do the chasm’.”
“Thee knows, Lambert,” remarked his better half, “that I think Janice would get more discipline and greater godliness in—”
“I tell ye he sha’n’t have her,” broke in the squire. “No man who preaches against me shall have my daughter; no, not if ’t were Saint Paul himself.”
“For her eventual good I—”
“Damn her eventual—”