In a play dad comes home, havin' been snaked bodily out of the jaws of the tomb by his coat collar, and the young one sings out 'Papa! Papa!' and he sobs, 'Me child! Me child!' and it's all lovely, and you put on your hat feelin' that the old man is goin' to be rich and righteous for the rest of his days.

But here it's different; dad's a rascal, and anybody who's seen anything of the world knows he's bound to stay so; and as for the poor little girl, why--why--" He stopped, rose, and, striding over to the window, stood looking out.
After an interval, during which the good-natured attorney read a dull business letter through for the second time, he spoke again.
"I hope you understand, Peabody," he said.

"It ain't just selfishness that makes me steer the course I'm runnin'.

Course, Bos'n's got to be the world and all to me, and if she's taken away I don't know's I care a tinker's darn what happens afterwards.

But, all the same, if her dad was a real man, sorry for what he's done and tryin' to make up for it--why, then, I cal'late I'm decent enough to take off my hat, hand her over, and say: 'God bless you and good luck.' But to think of him carryin' her off the Lord knows where, to neglect her and cruelize her, and to let her grow up among fellers like him, I--I--by the big dipper, I can't do it! That's all; I can't!" "How does she feel about it, herself ?" asked Peabody.
"Her?
Bos'n?
Why, that's the hardest of all.