and play at dice in your stomach! Boh, wicked child! Bee-baa, black sheep!”
On her accompanying each of these reproaches with a threatening stamp of the foot, the wretched creature protested with a whine.
“Pay five shillings for you indeed!” Miss Wren proceeded; “how many hours do you suppose it costs me to earn five shillings, you infamous boy?—Don’t cry like that, or I’ll throw a doll at you. Pay five shillings fine for you indeed. Fine in more ways than one, I think! I’d give the dustman five shillings, to carry you off in the dust cart.”
“No, no,” pleaded the absurd creature. “Please!”
“He’s enough to break his mother’s heart, is this boy,” said Miss Wren, half appealing to Eugene. “I wish I had never brought him up. He’d be sharper than a serpent’s tooth, if he wasn’t as dull as ditch water. Look at him. There’s a pretty object for a parent’s eyes!”
Assuredly, in his worse than swinish state (for swine at least fatten on their guzzling, and make themselves good to eat), he was a pretty object for any eyes.
“A muddling and a swipey old child,” said Miss Wren, rating him with great severity, “fit for nothing but to be preserved in the liquor that destroys him, and put in a great glass bottle as a sight for other swipey children of his own pattern—if he has no consideration for his liver, has he none for his mother?”
“Yes. Deration, oh don’t!” cried the subject of these angry remarks.
“Oh don’t and oh don’t,” pursued Miss Wren. “It’s oh do and oh do. And why do you?”
“Won’t do so any more. Won’t indeed. Pray!”