It was Peterkin himself who went to the door, gorgeous in a crimson satin dressing gown which came to his feet, but which no amount of pulling would make meet together over his ponderous stomach.

An oriental smoking cap was on his head, the big tassel hanging almost in his eyes, and a half-burned cigar between his fingers.
'Good George of Uxbridge!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Tom, from whose soaked hat the water was dripping, and upon Ann Eliza leaning against him, her pale face quivering with pain, and her eyes full of tears.

'George of Uxbridge! What's up?
What ails the girl!' At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said: 'She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home.

She cannot step.' 'Jerusalem hoe-cakes! Spraint her ankle! Can't step! You bring her home! Heavens and earth! Here, May Jane, come lively! Here's a nice how-dy-do! Ann Liza's broke her laig, and Tom Tracy's brung her home!' As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringing her into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and eliciting from her a cry of pain.
'Oh, father; Oh-h!--it does hurt so.

Put me somewhere quick, and take off my boot.