"For shame!—do hush, baby, will ye? Tuddy, tuddy, how he bawls!"
"Couldn't you tighten the cap-strings a little, my dear?"
"Monster! get away, will you?'
"Or cram your handkerchief down his throat, or your knitting-work, or the lamp-rug?"
"Ah, well thought of, my dear. Have you seen Mr. Smith?"
"What Smith?"
"George, I believe. The man you buy your oil of, and your groceries.—Hush, baby! He's been here two or three times after you this week."
"Hang Mr. Smith!"
"With all my heart, my love. But, if the quarter's rent is not paid, you know, and the grocer's bill, and the baker's, and the butcher's, and if you don't manage to get the bottling-house fixed up, and some other little matters attended to, I don't exactly see how the hanging of poor Mr. Smith would help us."
"Oh hush, will you?"