'If you'd found as many creatures in traps as me, and loosened 'em, and
seed their broken legs, and eyes as if they'd seed ghosses, and onst a
dog caught by the tongue--eh! you'd bother! You would that! And feyther
killing the pigs Good Fridays.'

'Why Good Fridays, of all days?'

'That was the day. Ah! every Good Friday I was used to fight feyther!'

'My dear child!'

'You would if you'd seed the pig that comforble and contented, and
know'd what it'd look like in a minute. I'd a killed feyther if I
could.'

'But why? Surely it was worse of you to want to kill your father than
of him to want to kill the pig?'

'I dunno. But I couldn't abear it. I bit him awful one time, and he hit
me on the head with a rake, and I went to sleep.'

Edward's forehead was damp with sweat.

'Merciful God!' he thought, 'that such things should be!'

'And when I've heard things screaming and crying to be loosed, and them
in traps, and never a one coming to 'em but me, it's come o'er me to
won'er who'd loose _me_ out if I was in a trap.'

'God would.'