"When I stowed myself away over there," resumes Franz, "I was more or less muddled. But I'm straight enough now, an' my head's clear. I've just reckelected about that gal's comin', an'--I say, old woman, can she hear us if she happens to be awake?" "No," replies Mamma, "she can't--not unless we talk louder than we're likely to." "Then haul up yer stool. We're goin' ter settle about her." The look which Mamma casts toward her worser half says, as plainly as looks can speak: "It's coming." And then she compresses her lips, and draws a chair near the table, while Papa occupies another, and Franz looks down upon the pair from his more elevated perch. "Now, then," begins Franz, "Who's that 'ere gal?" No answer from the two on the witness-stand. They exchange glances, and remain mute. "Next," goes on Franz, as if quite content with their silence, "wot's all this talk about child-stealin'?" Still no answer. Franz remains tranquil as before, and by way of diversion probably, squints along the shining barrel of his six shooter, and snaps the trigger playfully. "Have ye got that gal's young un?" he asks, still seeming to find the revolver an object of interest, "or hain't ye?" Down comes the dangerous weapon upon the knee of its owner, and quite by accident, of course, it has Papa's head directly in range. Seeing which, that worthy moves quickly aside with an exclamation of remonstrance. But Mamma is made of other stuff. She leans forward and leers up into the face of her Prodigal. "It seems ter me, youngster," she sneers, "that gal's took a strong hold on yer sympathies. Ain't ye gettin' terrible curious?" "May_be_," retorts Franz, returning her gaze with interest; "an' may_be_, now, 'tain't so much _sympathy_ as ye may suppose. I don't think sympathy runs in this 'ere family. The pint's right here, and this is a good time to settle it. You two's hung onter me ter stay by yer, an' strike together fer luck, but I'm blessed ef I'm goin' ter strike in ther dark. _I'm_ goin' ter see ter the bottom o' things, er let 'em alone. An' afore we drop this, I want these 'ere questions answered: Who is that gal, an' why does she talk about bein' your gal? Who is the young-un she talks of, an' have you got it? I'm goin' ter know yer lay afore _I_ move." "Franz," breaks in Papa deprecatingly, "jest give yer mother a chance. Maybe ye won't ride sich a high horse when ye hear her plans fer yer good." And then, as if she has just received her cue, Mamma breaks in: "Ah-h, Franz," she says contemptuously, "I'm disappinted in ye! Wot were ye thinkin' on, ter go an' weaken afore a slip of a gal like that, talkin' such chicken talk, an' goin' back on yer old mother!" "I thought ye said ye'd got ter hang onto that gal, an' she'd make all our fortin's," comments Franz. "An' so I did." "Well," and he favors her with a knowing leer, "if that's a fact, somebody needs ter git inter her good books, an' she don't 'pear to take much stock in you two."