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'Here y'are, said the Centre Driver, throwing a mess-tin over. 'An' the cook kep' tea hot for you an' the rest that was out. 'Pull that door shut be'ind you, said the Wheel Driver. 'This barn's cold as a ice-'ouse already, an' the roof leaks like a broke sieve. Billet! Strewth, it ain't 'arf a billet! 'What sort o' trip did you 'ave? asked the Centre Driver.
"Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery," said the miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!" "And I shouldn't make that fuss," replied his wife. "No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy nesh sides." "Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?" asked Paul, curious. "Eh, I dunno; that's what they say," replied his father.
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