human
News from your son,
gpt
Eh, is that anything to jump a man up for in the dead o' night? retorted the old man, cursing under his breath.
human
I was feared of a smoky black beggaring fire at the least, I was. What the devil do I care about the young rip? He owes me a hundred pound, he do, and I wrote him, but he never sent back a penny nor a post-card.
gpt
You're a nice, pretty father, exclaimed the Poet.
human
I've got your hundred in my pocket.
gpt
I'll come down to you and Mr Gaffekin,
human
No you won't, retorted the Poet,
gpt
It's cold-here, grumbled Mr Price, churlishly, flapping his arms across his chest.
human
What d'yer want to know?
gpt
Why, first of all, tell me why you never go out of nights?
human
What's that to you?
gpt
And tell me, tell me, William Price, who was the mother of your son?
human
What in Hell or under it is that to you?
gpt
Why is your bedstead all made of wood?
human
Hey, stop that!
gpt
Why have you half forgotten your own son, William Price? Why do you sleep all day, Father William, and pretend to be more stupid than the grave? Do you think a Poet cannot see through the film you cast over your happy eyes?
human
Eh, what are you driving at?
gpt
Who are your guests to-night, old man, who are your guests to-night?
human
Why, be you one of them that know?