Here! your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father's prosperity.
You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child."
Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.
"And what do you suppose, you conceited female," said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, "that the worth of your prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!"
"They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that."
"Worth no more than that," repeated Mr. Cruncher.
"They ain't worth much, then.
Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you.
I can't afford it.