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"It'll do the fresh laddie gude," quoth Tom, a trifle abashed but ready to stand by his guns, "I'm thenkin' he's one of them what feels they owns the airth, an' is bound to step on all worms of the dust whut comes in thur wy. But Jim, mon, we better be steppin' on, fer tomorra's the Sawbeth ya ken, an' it wuddent be gude for our souls if the parson shud cum out to investigate."
Jim turned indifferently away and stepped back to the sidewalk. Tom lifted his chin and replied kindly: "Why, Mon, it's the Sawbeth, didn't ye know? I'm s'proised at ye! It's the Sawbeth, an' this is Sawbeth Volley! We don't wurruk on the Sawbeth day in Sawbeth Volley. Whist! Hear thot, mon?"
The questions seemed to anger the driver, who demanded loftily: "Where's your garage?" "Garage? Oh, we haven't any garage," said Jim pleasantly, with a mute twinkle in his Irish eye. "No garage? Haven't any garage! What town is this, if you call it a town?" "Why, mon, this is Sawbeth Volley! Shorely ye've heard of Sawbeth Volley!"
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