“And you and mother won’t give him any more suppers or diachylum,” said Joe; “but I dare say he won’t break his heart if you don’t give him the preaching by itself. It does seem to me plaguy hard that the women won’t let a man get his own head broke quietly, when he has a mind to it.”
“And there was Simon Withers, too,” went on Miss Lucy, “he sprained his ankle at the wrestling, and was in the house for three weeks, and his poor old mother nearly starving.”
“’Twasn’t at wrestling, though,” said Joe, “’twas at hurdle-racing. He’d much better have been at backsword; for a chap can go to work with a broken head next morning, and feel all the better for it, but he can’t with a sprained ankle.”
“What does Mr. Warton think?” said I; for somehow he was keeping back, and seemed a little on Joe’s side, and if he showed that, I thought he would lose ground with Miss Lucy.
“Oh! I’m sure Mr. Warton is on our side, ain’t you, Sir? Do tell Joe how wrong it is of him to go on talking as he does.”
“No, no, Miss Lucy, I’m not going to be drawn into the quarrel as your knight; you’re quite able to take your own part,” said Mr. Warton.
“I’m sure Mr. Warton is against us in his heart,” said I to Miss Lucy; “only he’s a clergyman, and doesn’t like to say so.”
“Come, now, I can’t stand that,” said he to me; “and you and I must have it out; only mind, Miss Lucy, you mustn’t come in; one at a time is enough for me.”
“I won’t say a word, Sir, if Joe won’t.”