'
'What do you mean, uncle?' Harold asked awkwardly, self-
consciously.
'I mean as thou'rt a dashed foo'!'
'Why?'
'But thou'lt get better o' that,' said Dan.
Harold smiled sheepishly.
'I don't know what you're driving at, uncle,' said he.
'Yes, thou dost, lad. Thou'st been and quarrelled wi' Maud. And I
say thou'rt a dashed foo'!'
'As a matter of fact--' Harold stammered.
'And ye've never quarrelled afore. This is th' fust time. And so
thou'st under th' impression that th' world's come to an end.
Well, th' fust quarrel were bound to come sooner or later.'
'It isn't really a quarrel--it's about nothing--'
'I know--I know,' Dan broke in. 'They always are. As for it not
being a quarrel, lad, call it a picnic if thou'st a mind. But
heir's sulking upstairs, and thou'rt sulking down here.'
'She was cross about the petrol,' said Harold, glad to relieve his
mind. 'I hadn't a notion she was cross till I went up into the
bedroom. Not a notion! I explained to her it wasn't my fault. I
argued it out with her very calmly. I did my best to reason with
her--'
'Listen here, young 'un,' Dan interrupted him. 'How old art?'
'Twenty-three.'
'Thou may'st live another fifty years. If thou'st a mind to spend
'em i' peace, thoud'st better give up reasoning wi' women.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182