Mar. Maybe I do.
Rip. They say that before he came here—a matter o’ three or four years since—he was a decent sort o’ body enough, a blacksmith, I do hear, but he got struck half silly like through some bad luck, and he’s been a changed man ever since.
Mar. Oh, they say that, do they?
Rip. Ay. Well, I don’t know what he was, but I know what he is; that’s enough for me. The scowlingest, black-browedest, three-corneredest chap I ever see, ’cept as regards children, and he’s as fond o’ children as a young girl, and the littler they are the more he likes ’em, and they likes him. Now, I’m as tender-hearted as a kitten, but I hates children, and they can’t abide me. That’s odd, ain’t it?
Mar. Ay.
Rip. Yes, that’s Dan’l Druce’s story as far as we knows it down in these parts. Maybe you know more?
Mar. Maybe I do.
Rip. Now, I dare swear there was a woman at the bottom of it all. I never got my chain cable kinked but a woman had a hand in it.
Mar. (coming forward). Hark ye, my lad, you’re hard on women. From the look of you, I’ve a notion no woman ever had much to do with any trouble of yours, saving your mother when she bore you. No, no, your tongue’s done all the mischief that ever come to you. You let women alone; I’m sure they never interfere with you.
Enter Dan’l Druce. He has a bundle of nets over his shoulder, and he is half tipsy. His appearance is that of a man of fifty, but haggard with want. His hair is long and matted, and he has a beard of some days’ growth on his chin.