"'Cos I don't want to. I'd rather they went away."
"Open the door immediately," screamed the old beldame, "or I'll strip the skin off you."
"When you can get at me," laughed the insolent lad. "Why don't you hobble up and open the door yoursel'?"
Mr. Fitzmorris put an end to this disgraceful colloquy, by walking into the house. The shoemaker was absent; no one but the old crone and her grandson, a young, surly-looking ruffian of fourteen, was at home.
"Well, Mrs. Bell, how are you this afternoon?"
"Oh, just the same. Aches and pains—aches and pains. Now in my arm—now in my leg—then again in every bone in my body. What a thing it is to be old and poor, and surrounded by a lot of young wretches, who laugh at your sufferings, and do all they can to worry and vex you."
"You draw a poor picture of domestic comfort," said Mr. Fitzmorris, sitting down beside her. "But why do you suffer your grandchildren to behave in this undutiful manner?"
"Lauk-a-mercy, sir, how can I help it?"
"Are you kind to them?"
"No," said the boy. "Granny's never kind. She scolds, and rates, and swears at us from morn till night, and then she's riled if we swears agin."