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 Hommy: It’s my belief it’s wickad he is, an’ if you were to take an’–

Mrs. Gale: Wickad, indeed, Hommy Beg! You were wickad, too, when you were a chile, from all that’s sayin’, an’ your mother pullin’ twigs from the hedges to be larshin’ you with. [To Child] There, there then, was Hommy bad to the poor lil falla? What’s doin’ on him then!

Hommy: Well I’d better be lookin’ for the mendin’. Them coats an’ things, is it? [Goes to pile of things and begins looking them over. With coat or waistcoat held out, he stops and looks wisely at Mrs. Gale over his glasses.] Well, he’s what you might call a species of coorosity, anyway.

Mrs. Gale [furiously]: Coorosity yourself, Hommy Beg! How dare you be comin’ in the house callin’ names to him–jus’ you set down to your own work, an’ leave him to mine. [Hommy shrugs his shoulders and settles himself cross-legged on table with work.] Coorosity, indeed! As if childher was like them big dolls that can only squeak when you pinch them.

Mrs. Gale: I think he’ll be quate now for awhile. Will you cast an eye on him Hommy, an’ I’ll jus’ slip roun’ to Radcliffe’s to see can I get some goose-grease. P’raps the neck is sore at him with all the cryin’ he’s doin’. Cast an eye, Hommy; cast an eye.

Hommy [begins to thread needle, etc.]: Well I never saw the like of these wans fir wearin’ their clothes. Childhor now you don’t wonder at. They’re like moths fir their clothes. But these wans is well off an’ no need to be wearin’ such oul duds.

Child [sitting up suddenly]: Drop that, Hommy Beg!