“Well,” said Val, in a sharp, imperious;one, “you're punctual for a wonder.”
“God be praised for that,” replied Darby, wiping the top of his nose with the finger and thumb of an old mitten, “heaven be praised that I'm not late.”
“Hold your damned canting, tongue, you knave, what place is this for it?”
“Knave! well I am then.”
“Yes, you know you are—you are all knaves—every bailiff is a knave—ahem—unless, indeed, one in a thousand.”
“It's truth, indeed, plaise your honor.”
“Not but there's worse than you after all, and be damned to you.”
“An' betther, sir, too, i' you please, for sure, God help me, I'm not what I ought to be.”
“Well, mend then, why don't you? for you want it. Come now, no jaw, I tell you, but answer me what I am about to ask you; not a word now.”
“Well, no then, plaise your honor, I won't in throth.”