"Vot you kits doornt off vor? Hey?"

Gottlieb Wehle always spoke English, or what he called English, when he
was angry.

"Vot for? Hey?"

All the way home from Anderson's on that Saturday night, August had
been, in imagination, listening to the rough voice of his honest father
asking this question, and he had been trying to find a satisfactory
answer to it. He might say that Mr. Anderson did not want to keep a hand
any longer. But that would not be true. And a young man with August's
clear blue eyes was not likely to lie.

"Vot vor ton't you not shpeak? Can't you virshta blain Eenglish ven you
hears it? Hey? You a'n't no teef vot shteels I shposes, unt you ton't
kit no troonks mit vishky? Vot you too tat you pe shamt of? Pin lazin'
rount? Kon you nicht Eenglish shprachen? Oot mit id do vonst!"

"I did not do anything to be ashamed of," said August. And yet he looked
ashamed.

"You tidn't pe no shamt, hey? You tidn't! Vot vor you loogs so leig a
teef in der bentenshry? Vot for you sprachen not mit me ven ich sprachs
der blainest zort ov Eenglish mit you? You kooms sneaggin heim Zaturtay
nocht leig a tog vots kot kigt, unt's got his dail dween his leks; and
ven I aks you in blain Eenglish vot's der madder, you loogs zheepish
leig, und says you a'n't tun nodin. I zay you tun sompin. If you a'n't
tun nodin den, vy don't you dell me vot it is dat you has tun? Hey?"