Mr Prothero was reading the newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself.
His worthy wife was mending or making shirts.

At another round table, not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain Marryat's novels open before her.
'Why don't you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories, Netta ?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.
'I am working, father,' said Netta.
'Pretty working sure enough.

What nonsense have you got reading now ?' 'Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.' 'Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and 'The Pilot,' and 'The Spy,' and I don't know what else, that sent Owen off to sea.

I suppose it's there you learn all your nonsense.

I wish you would read the cookery book, and help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing what's no good in the world.' A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.
'Who on earth is that at this time of night ?' exclaimed the farmer, throwing down his paper.
'Shanno,' called Mrs Prothero into the passage, 'ask who it is before you open the door.' 'It's no great things,' suggested Netta, 'for they're knocking with a stick, and not with the knocker.' 'Name o' goodness, what's the row ?' said the farmer.
'Who's there ?' demanded Shanno, in the passage.
The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, 'It's them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.' 'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a lesson my name isn't David.' He seized a stick and went into the passage, followed by his wife, murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from which she peeped down the passage.
'Who's there ?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.
'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry.