“Now,” said he, “that the coast is clear, I desire you to answer me a question that I'll put to you—an' mark my words—by all that s above us, an' undher us, an' about us, if you don't spake thruth, I'll be apt to make short work of it.”
“What is it?” she inquired, looking at him with cool and collected resentment, and an eye that was perfectly fearless.
“There was a Tobaccy-Box about this house, or in this house. Do you know anything about it?”
“A tobaccy-box—is it?”
“Ay, a tobaccy-box.”
“Well, an' what about it? What do you want wid it? An ould, rusty Tobaccy-box; musha, is that what's throublin' you this mornin'?”
“Come,” said he darkening, “I'll have no humbuggin'—answer me at wanst. Do you know anything about it?”
“Is it about your ould, rusty Tobaccy-box? Arrah, what 'ud I know about it? What the sorra would a man like you do wid a Tobaccy-box, that doesn't ever smoke? Is it mad or ravin' you are? Somehow I think the stroll you had wid the vagabone gipsy of a daughter of yours, hasn't put you into the best of timper, or her aither. I hope you didn't act the villain on me: for she looks at me as if she could ait me widout salt. But, indeed, she's takin' on her own hands finely of late; she's gettin' too proud to answer me now when I ax her a question.”
“Well, why don't you ax her as you ought?”
“She was out all yesterday evenin', and when I said 'You idle sthrap, where wor you?' she wouldn't even think it worth her while to give me an answer, the vagabone.”